


Slick back My Hair (You know the Devil's in There)

by wehangout



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon-typical language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Paid to Kill, Pining, Slurs, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5356094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hit-men AU where Ian and Mickey make a great team and are maybe totally a little bit hot for each other. After Ian gets shot Mickey is forced to confront his feelings for his partner in crime, and deal with the fact that someone out there is trying to kill Ian, the one person he'll do anything to protect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slick back My Hair (You know the Devil's in There)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This was written for round four of the Shameless Big Bang. An absolutely epic video was made that you can find [here](http://anothergallavichlove.tumblr.com/post/134579486340/hit-men-au-where-ian-and-mickey-make-a-great-team).
> 
> 2\. Though it's not necessary to read it, this fic does exist in the same universe as this small one shot right [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4170363). It gives a bit of background to the relationship and some of their private jokes, but nothing major.
> 
> 3\. As always, many thanks to [Ella](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com/) who managed to beta this for me while traveling.

Everything goes to hell after Ian gets shot.

It’s not a clean shot; the bullet’s still lodged somewhere in his shoulder and there’s a lot more blood than you would like. And it’s not like blood isn’t something you’re used to - you kill people for a fucking living, and sometimes things get more than a little messy - but this is different. This is Ian’s blood.

Ian’s blood staining your hands. Ian’s blood seeping through the bundled fabric of his shirt. Ian’s blood pooling over his shaky fingers.

He grunts as you drive too fucking fast over a particularly big pot hole. “Mick, slow the fuck down.”

“Not a chance.”

“It’s a clean shot,” he says, and he sounds so sure of himself when you both know he’s totally fucking wrong. “It’s not gonna kill me.”

You throw him a glare out of the corner of your eye. “Not fucking funny, man.”

“Not a lie, either. I’ve had worse than this. Hell, you’ve had worse than this.”

He’s right, but the scars that riddle your body are not the point, and you don’t like to think about the scars on Ian that you’ve caught the occasional glimpse of. It just makes you think of other, worse close calls, and that’s not something you can let yourself do while he’s bleeding out over the interior of the hired Mustang.

You tell yourself that’s why you’re wound so tight, even open your mouth to bitch at him about ruining the classic car, but nothing comes out.

“I’m fine,” he says, not for the first time, but his skin is pale and sickly and your stomach churns. “I’m fucking fine.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Way to have faith, man.”

You swipe your thumb across your lower lip and turn right. “You seem to forget that I’m the one who has to stitch you up. My sewing skills are … lacking.”

Ian groans. “Fuck. The guy can kill someone without spilling a single drop of blood, but replace a button? Don’t fucking count on it.”

“Want me to drop you off at a hospital?”

“No.”

The question is just as redundant as his answer. In your line of business, hospitals are the second biggest no-no. Right after law enforcement. They both ask too many fucking questions.

“Where the fuck did that guy even come from?” Ian continues. “We did all our research. We’ve been following the target for a week now and never once saw the fucker who shot me.”

“Doesn’t matter now. He’s gone. I took care of him.”

“My hero,” he mutters, all sarcasm.

He remains silent for the rest of the ride to the shitty hotel room, and any other time you’d be grateful for the reprieve, but now you’re just growing more concerned by the second. Logically, you know it’s going to be fine - all you need to do is dig out the bullet, then clean and close the wound. It’s nothing compared to some of the shit Gallagher’s been through …

But all logic seemed to have whooshed right out of you the second a stranger showed up and shot a bullet straight into your partner in crime. Official partner in crime, as of three weeks ago. You sniff quietly and pull into the parking lot of the hotel.

It’s dark out, not another soul in sight. You shut the engine off and Ian’s ragged breathing becomes loud and clear. You chance a look at him, knowing you won’t like what you see, but he just glares back at you.

“Fuck you. Just because it’s not serious doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like a bitch.”

“Didn’t say a word.”

“Well … don’t.”

You fight back a smile. “Let’s get you inside. I think I’ve still got some of the good painkillers tucked away somewhere.”

He just grunts in reply and reaches out to open the door. You think about helping him, but you know he’ll just turn you down, so you sit and watch him for a moment before heading out and unlocking the door to the hotel room. You switch on the lights, dig out the bottle of Jack from your suitcase, and head back to the car for the first-aid kit in the time it takes Ian to get to the bed.

“I honestly don’t remember the last time I got shot,” he mutters, slouching on the bed, bloody shirt on the ground at his feet.

You hand him the bottle of alcohol. “At least a year ago. You ain’t been shot since you started up with me. Well, not until now.”

“I think it was in Germany.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember if it was the politician or the Nazi extremist.”

“Probably both.” You nudge his hand, encourage him to start drinking. He takes a long pull as you sort through the contents of the first-aid kit.

“Please tell me you’ve picked bullets out of someone before?”

You snort. “You think I let someone else to pull the shotgun shells out of my ass? Fuck off, ain’t no one I trust enough to do that for me.”

“Always knew you were a badass, Mick.”

“Don’t fucking forget it. You ready?”

He glances at the rubbing alcohol you hold in one hand and the over-sized tweezers in the other. “Do it.”

You don’t piss around. You quickly clean your hands and the wound, ignoring Ian’s sharp intake of breath, and stick your finger into the hole in his shoulder. His entire body tenses, but he doesn’t make a sound as you dig around until you know where the bullet is.

“Got it,” you mutter, pulling your finger out. “Ready?”

“Stop asking stupid questions and just fucking do it.”

You grin, but do as he says. With a long, steady breath, you push the tweezers into the bullet wound and begin to prod. Ian shakes slightly, but steadies himself with another guzzle of Jack. You blink quickly a few times, knowing you have to do this, but hating that you’re just causing him more pain. You press in a little farther, hoping like hell you don’t hit any nerves, and a shock of relief floods through you when the tweezers hit the bullet.

“Found it. Just a little longer, man,” you tell him. He doesn’t reply, and you put all your concentration into opening the tweezers and removing the bullet.

A fresh spurt of blood follows the bullet out, and you throw the tweezers to the ground, pick up the rubbing alcohol, and get to cleaning his shoulder again. Ian continues drinking, but his body is relaxed and you think the booze is beginning to do its magic.

“You okay, man?” you ask, pressing a clean bandage to the wound, catching the last few drips of blood. Ian nods, and you pull the bandage away. “Gonna start stitching you up now, okay?”

He looks at you, eyes bright. “My hero,” he says again, far too sincere.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I’ve lost a lot of blood - sue me if the alcohol’s gone straight to my head.”

“You lost fuck all blood. You’re just a fucking pussy.”

He smiles that dip-shit smile you’re way too fond of. “And you’re worried. Told ya, Mick - it’s a clean shot. In fact, we should do this again sometime … only, you know, without the getting-shot part.

You pause in your effort to thread the needle and meet his gaze. “Two inches to the right and it would’ve hit your fucking heart, Ian.”

“Two inches to the left and it would have missed me completely.”

You say nothing. He doesn’t seem to get it, and you don’t entirely get it, either, so you let it go and stitch him up. He’s got enough alcohol in his system now that he barely flinches when you first poke the needle into his tender skin, and he’s barely awake by the time you’re finished. You leave him slouching where he is while you grab the bottle of Oxy out of your bag.

“Here, man,” you say softly, palm to his cheek. “Take these and then sleep the pain away.”

He does as you tell him to, swallowing the drugs back with another swig of Jack. He lifts his good arm to wipe at the dribble on his chin, and you frown at how disgusting you don’t find it.

“Thanks, Mick,” he mutters, moving to lie on the bed. You help him get into position, and he reaches out a hand to clumsily stroke his fingers over your cheek. “You’re so beautiful.”

He’s drunk and in pain and passed out seconds later, but you still blush like a teenager at his words. You take a step back and shrug your jacket off, not once taking your eyes off him.

Despite what you said to him on the drive over, all you want to know is who the fuck the bastard was that shot him. He had nothing on him - no I.D., no phone, not a single personal possession. It was just him and his gun, and now it’s just him and his gun rotting in a dumpster outside a local McDonald’s.

You push him out of your mind for now, though, and it doesn’t really take much. Not with Ian snoring softly on the bed in front of you. You don’t get it - this intense and sudden urge to climb into bed with him, press up against his side and never let him out of your sight again. You want to put it down to him getting hurt, to your partner in all things assassination-related getting shot, but you’re not sure you can.

\---

Ian’s arm gives him trouble for the next month. He refuses any more painkillers after day three, once again assuring you he’s had worse and then going into great detail of the time he got stabbed in the calf with a hot poker. You’ve heard the story multiple times, but, for some reason, this time is the worst.

You don’t like to think about that. Or about how you’ve spent most of your downtime the last month trying to figure out who shot him and coming up empty. It’s not often you can’t find information on someone - it’s part of your job - and you don’t like what that might mean.

You’re on the company’s private plane back to America when Ian starts again. You just finished getting rid of a prince in France who spent too much time looking at child pornography - literally an hour ago, having gone from the apartment building where you took him out straight to the airport - and Ian’s still riding the high of getting rid of someone who truly deserves it.

“That was fucking awesome, right?” He grins at you from where he’s sitting, lounged out on the chair opposite. His laptop is open on the small table between you, but he seems more interested in talking to you than anything else. “Oh, man, this job gives me a killer rush.”

You don’t even bother fighting the eye roll. “Your such a dick.”

He grins. “We should do this again sometime, Mick,” he says, just like he always does, and you take a sip of your whiskey and say nothing.

Ian keeps talking about the hit, but you only pay vague attention, staring out the window at the surrounding sky. It should have been a perfect, text-book hit - in and out, zero mess, no clean up time necessary - except that Ian’s temper had taken over and he’d beaten the shit out of the victim just because he could …

Not that you blame him. You were pretty tempted to do the same yourself when you found out you were being sent after another fucking pervert, but, unlike Gallagher, you know how to keep your cool. You know that getting the job done in the time allotted is usually more important than making it hurt.

“Stop it,” Ian mutters and you glance at him.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking about how I fucked up back there. The piece of shit is dead, we did our job.”

“And spilt way more blood than necessary.”

“So? The fucker deserved it.”

You take a drink before replying. “Maybe. But I don’t deserve to have to clean up your mess because you can’t control your temper, man. We almost got caught.”

Ian has the decency to look ashamed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You gotta lock that shit down.”

“I am! I - I’m trying, okay? Sometimes it’s just … hard. My temper gets the better of me.”

You place your glass on the table between you and lean forward, hands clasped and elbows on your knees. “I know, man. Fuck, you think I didn’t want to help you kick the shit out of that guy? Because I fucking did, okay?”

“Yeah?”

“’Course. But we’ve got a job to do, and when we’re given a thirty-second window we kind of have to stick to it.”

He sighs, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You’re so fucking bossy.”

“Yeah, yeah. You tell yourself that the next time I’m saving your ass from bodyguards three times your size.”

He grins, but his laptop chirps before he replies. His whole face lights up at the sound, though, and you stare at him as he sits up straight and gives all his attention to the incoming call. You already know it’s Fiona - and maybe one or two of Ian’s other siblings - and you lean back in your seat, unwilling to do anything to distract him.

You’re not sure that’s even possible, though. There are a lot of things you like about Gallagher - a lot of things you like far too fucking much - and the way he feels about his family is just one of them. It used to confuse you, frustrate you. You used to think there was no way someone with a loving, caring family could possibly succeed in your line of work - you didn’t have either and you’re a fucking champ at killing for money - despite all Ian’s hits to the contrary.

Now, though. Now it fills you with an uncomfortable warmth when you see his eyes shine and his mouth curl into that smile he saves for his family.

You tap your fingers against the arm rest of your chair and watch him wave his hands around, telling Fiona a censored version of the party you went to two weeks ago. The hit had been a multi-millionaire - unlike the paedophiliac prince, you didn’t know any details about this guy; all you knew was that he was rich and his name had appeared in a text message on your burner with the appropriate price next to it.

That was all you needed to know.

Ian took him out by poisoning his champagne, but not before making the most of the food and drink at the fancy-ass party he’s now telling Fiona about.

“And, oh crap. Mick, what was that one food neither of us were willing to try?” he asks, looking up to meet your gaze.

_“Balut?_ Fucking chicken embryo or some shit.”

“Right, right!” He goes back to Fiona and you bite your bottom lip, desperate to hold in the grin that wants to escape at the disgusted look on his face. “Chicken embryo or duck embryo, Fi. How fucking sick is that?”

“You mean like eggs?” she asks, her voice sounding tinny through the laptop.

“Nope. An actual developing embryo.”

You look away as Ian and Fiona breaks into peals of laughter at how gross that entire experience was, and something in your stomach clenches as you do. You feel like you’re intruding on a private conversation, despite the subject of said conversation being nothing personal. You never used to feel like that - once or twice you even let Ian turn the laptop around so you could flip off his family members - but now it feels like you’re watching something incredibly private that you’re not included in.

Something you desperately want to be included in.

\---

“Take the fucking shot, Mickey.”

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher.

“Remind me again why I let you do this one?”

“Because I’m the better shot.”

“Bullshit.”

“Because it’s my turn.”

He sighs loudly, and his flailing around on the roof next to you is fucking distracting. You tilt the rifle slightly to get a better position. You’re in Ohio, waiting to take out some woman who came up on your burner phone as worth close to a million bucks - you don’t know who she is or what she’s done, if anything, but you don’t really care when that kind of money is involved.

“It’s my turn,” he says. “You practically begged me for this one and I wanna know why.”

“I was getting antsy,” you mutter. “We haven’t had a job in three weeks.”

“Seriously? You were getting antsy to kill? That’s pretty fucking morbid, dude.”

When your target is blocked by her bulking bodyguard, you pull your face away from the gun and look at Gallagher. “We kill people for a living; what about that isn’t morbid?”

“Sure, but I don’t take pleasure in it.”

“Bullshit,” you say, mimicking his earlier comeback, and he grins.

“Okay, sometimes I take great pleasure in it, but it’s not my fault the world is full of psychos we need to deal with.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“But I don’t get antsy when I have to go weeks without killing someone.”

You put your eye back to the scope and mutter your reply. “I wasn’t getting antsy to kill, I was getting antsy to do something - plan, prepare, fucking work instead of sitting on my ass and getting fat.”

Ian’s silent for a long minute, and you’re glad because you’re lying through your fucking teeth, but you can’t tell him that. All you can do is hope he doesn’t realise it, hope he doesn’t realise that you’re so fucking desperate to keep him away from the job.

You’re just about to take the shot when he speaks up. “You’re ass is anything but fat, Mick.”

You sigh and try not to smile. “Shut the fuck up so I can take this chick out.”

He does, and five minutes later you’re speeding away from the building with Ian in the passenger seat. He’s slouched down, legs spread and head tilted back, and you have to remind yourself every minute or two to keep your fucking eyes on the road.

“That was fun,” he says, looking at you through hooded eyes, as though he knows exactly what’s going on in your head. “We should do that again sometime.”

“Any requests for where you wanna hole up?” you ask, glancing in the rear-view mirror. There’s a red SUV three cars behind you that’s been three cars behind you since you left the rooftop.

He clears his throat and sits up. “We’ve got another couple of days before we head for Australia, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cool. I, uh, I was thinking of heading home for the Fourth, do the family thing, you know?”

You throw a glance at him while making an unexpected right turn. The SUV follows. “Sounds good, man. Want me to drop you at the airport?”

“Sure. Or, you know, you could come with?”

It’s not the first time he’s asked you to join in on the family shit he and the other Gallaghers seem to like doing. It is the first time you agree.

“Okay.”

“Really?” And even out of the corner of your eye you can see him fucking beaming at you.

“Got nothing better to do.”

Ian nods like what you’ve said is an acceptable answer, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. You ignore it, and when the SUV continues straight ahead instead of following your next left turn, you ignore that feeling inside of you that wants to do nothing but make him smile like that for the rest of forever.

\---

Ian’s family thinks he travels the world selling insurance. You can’t think of a more boring job.

You keep those thoughts to yourself, though, because you’re supposed to be his partner, the guy he works with, the person he travels everywhere with and sells insurance with.

You’re happy enough to go along with the lie until questions start getting asked.

Your gaze is glued to where Ian’s playing in the pool with his brothers. A few of his scars from the job are visible without his shirt on, but Ian claims his year in Afghanistan works every time someone asks about a new one. They’ve never kept count, and they’re not willing to question it; he did come back pretty damn scarred up.

And still so frustratingly hot.

“You know Ian’s gay, right?”

You have genuine trouble looking away from Ian, but, when she starts speaking, you narrow your eyes at Debbie and wonder where she’s going with this. “I’m aware.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“A lot of straight men feel threatened by gay men,” she insists. “I’m just wondering if you’re one of those men.”

“By _one of those_ do you mean straight or threatened?”

Her eyes widen as though she hadn’t even considered the possibility. “Holy shit. You guys are sleeping together.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Liar.”

“I ain’t lying.” You pick at the label on your beer bottle and kind of wish you were lying. “Me and Ian work together. That’s it.”

“Okay. But you want to sleep with him, right?”

“You always take this much interest in who wants to fuck your siblings?”

She gives you an odd smile and takes a swig of her beer. You decide to do the same, and your gaze automatically goes back to Ian. He’s got his youngest brother on his shoulders and that smile lighting up his whole face. It’s beautiful.

It’s beautiful, but you can feel Debbie staring at you, can almost imagine the smug grin on her face that would look eerily like Ian’s when he’s right and you’re wrong about something. So you fight the smile that wants to appear at the sight of him and look away. You look away and pretend that your glance was making its way around the backyard anyway.

“How did you guys meet?” she asks.

“Work.”

“Sure, but how?”

You fidget on the porch steps when Ian’s other sister and the neighbours stop talking and pay attention to you. You take another swig of beer and try to put them off.

“What? Ian didn’t tell you?”

“Ian doesn’t shut up about you,” Fiona says, sly grin on her face. “But he never told us how you met.”

You sneak another look at Ian, but he’s too busy splashing his brothers to notice your predicament. So you run a hand through your hair and give them something close to the truth.

“Uh, we were sent to the same job and realised we worked better as a team.”

“That’s it?” Debbie asks, looking doubtful.

“Pretty much.”

“Boring.”

“What were you expecting?”

She gives you the exact smug grin you had been imagining only minutes ago. “Some kind of epic love story.”

You roll your eyes and say nothing else. You don’t tell them how Ian saved your life when he turned up at the same job you had. You don’t tell them how he went against all the rules and drove you to the hospital after taking out the target. You don’t tell them how he sat with you for three days while you were recovering from some pretty serious surgery.

After that he wouldn’t leave you alone. He said it was fate, destiny, meant to be that the company had fucked up and sent you both to the same job, but you thought it was just a fuck up. Or sheer dumb luck. He saved your ass, after all. He saved your life, and that’s why you let him tag along on your next job. He had nowhere else to be for ten days, and you were still dealing with four bullet wounds.

You like to tell yourself that’s why you let him stick around for so long. Why, when the company decided to make working in teams of two official, you didn’t complain or ask for someone else. You like to pretend you didn’t find Ian super fucking endearing a week after working with him.

You don’t tell his family that and you especially don’t tell them that you’re not sure what you would do if you had to go back to working by yourself … working without Ian.

You just pick at your bottle, let them talk around you, and watch Ian play in the pool with his brothers. When he looks up and meets your gaze, directs that brilliant smile at you, you smile back. Just slightly.

And you don’t stop smiling. It’s fucking pathetic. You had wanted to be included in Ian’s silly talks with Fiona over Skype, and now you’re here, with his family, included in everything and … it’s nice. Kind of sickeningly nice, but still nice. Lip shares his weed with you, Kev initiates a game of poker that he insists you join, and Debbie asks your opinions of what papers she should apply to after college.

You don’t know anything about journalism, but it’s nice to be asked, and every time you think shit like that you just feel like a fucking pussy.

Halfway through your third round of poker, right around the time Carl’s dragging the fireworks downstairs, your burner goes off.

You glance at Ian, but he’s chatting animatedly to Fiona, definitely not acting like he has information for his next assassination sitting in his pocket. Which means he’s either a fucking good actor, or this text was meant only for you.

You pull out your phone, but keep your gaze on Ian. He doesn’t look at you once. Swallowing through the dryness in your throat, you open the text.

_2119 North Wallace_  
_RUN_

It’s from a blocked number, but you take it seriously. You stand, dropping your cards on the table and telling Kev, Vee, and Lip that you fold, and walk over to Ian.

“We gotta go,” you say, interrupting whatever he’s saying to Fiona.

“What do you mean?”

“Got them!” Carl calls, coming down the last few steps with a huge box in his hands. Everyone else cheers and heads outside, and their timing couldn’t be more perfect.

You show Ian the text and his face pales.

“That’s this address.”

“Yep.”

With one last longing look out the backdoor towards where his family have disappeared, he grabs his keys and nods. “Let’s go.”

“What about your family?”

“I’ll sort it.”

You take his word for it. You follow him out the front door and climb into the passenger seat of the hired Toyota, but you watch Ian carefully as he pulls away from the house and starts down the street. He gets half a block away before he pulls out his phone and sends off a quick text.

“You heard of Sheila Jackson?”

“Of course. She’s a fucking legend throughout the company.”

“Right. She lives in the neighbourhood now,” he says, answering your unspoken question. “She got me the job, actually.”

“She’ll check on your family?”

He nods. “But that doesn’t answer who sent the text.”

“Or why.”

There’s nothing you can say to that, so you reach a hand across and give Ian’s tense shoulder a gentle squeeze.

\---

Ian loves Australia. Sure, it’s pretty and the birds sound nice when the sun is setting and the guys walking down the beach rarely wear shirts, but …

But you don’t like the ocean. Birds are fucking loud when all you’re trying to do is eat your dinner. You hate shorts, and it’s already too fucking hot for jeans.

You don’t like Australia.

Ian loves Australia. Ian talks about getting a rainbow lorikeet tattooed on his leg. Ian thinks he’s gonna get surfing lessons once the last target has been hit. Ian’s going to get eaten by a fucking shark.

You keep these thoughts to yourself, though, because whenever you bitch to Ian about the sun or the sand or the snakes that you just know are going to show their ugly heads eventually, he just smiles and offers you more sun block. You hate that you and Ian agreed to take three jobs here over the course of a month.

But the month is almost over. It’s time to take out the last target.

And you’re just fucking glad the sun has gone down, the birds have stopped chirping, and you’re not on the goddamn beach. Ian loves the fucking beach.

You’re in a dark alleyway with Ian, hands clenched into fists at your sides. It’s late … or early, depending on how you look at it. Ian likes to think of it as an unusually early morning - up before dawn, and you don’t doubt he’ll go for his usual morning jog when you get back to the hotel.

You check your watch. According to your weather app you have forty-seven minutes until sunrise, and according to the research you’ve done you have less than a minute before the target shows.

“Gallagher,” you whisper. “You sure you got this?”

“Of course I’ve got this.”

“Yeah, but … I mean, I can do this one if you want?”

He glares at you. “You’ve taken the last three hits, Mickey, now fuck off.”

He’s not wrong, but before you can put too much thought into it, whistling echoes from one end of the alleyway. The same whistling you’ve been waiting for, and out of the corner of your eye you see Ian’s knife gleam in his hand.

You bite at your lip and look away. Ian’s tense next to you, but it’s the kind of tense you’ve come to expect with him and the job. The kind of tense that disappears the second he’s got the job done, that melts into an ease that only this gives him. He’s got this. He’s always got this. It’s his fucking job.

Despite that, you steal the hit. A split second before Ian moves into the alleyway and takes out the target, you take his place. You push forward, grabbing your own knife from your belt as you go, and grab the guy by the shoulders. You ignore his gasp of distress, you ignore Ian’s furiously whispered _what the fuck, Mickey_ , and you ignore the flush of guilt you can already feel.

You slit the guy’s throat and throw him to the ground without a second’s hesitation.

When you look at Ian, he’s staring at you in shock and fury. And you don’t blame him. You ignore it, though, wipe your knife on your black shirt, and look away.

“Let’s get outta here.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ian hisses. He steps forward and shoves your shoulder. “What the fuck was that, Milkovich? Since when do we take each other’s hits, huh?”

“Forget it, man, it’s not a big deal.”

“Fuck you, it’s not a big deal. What the fuck were you thinking?”

You fumble for an explanation, still not meeting Ian’s gaze, and your response sounds pathetic, even to you. “He might not have been alone.”

“So?”

“So what would you have done if there had been more than one?”

“My fucking job. What would you have done?”

You look at him then, because there’s really no way to answer that other than how he just did. “Look, we’ve got about half an hour to get back to the hotel. Can we finish this there?”

“Whatever, man.” He turns to leave, looking nothing but disgusted, and you really have no choice but to go with him.

You follow him home, wanting nothing more than to take the lead and keep him behind you, but you’re not that stupid. You’re stupid enough to put the both of you in danger by going against the plan for no good reason - at least as far as Gallagher is concerned - but you won’t give him any more reasons to be pissed off with you before you get back to the hotel.

So you trail just behind him down the dark streets, blend into the shadows when the occasional car goes past, and subtly reach for your knife when a shrill scream comes from behind you. You tense, Ian doing the same, and neither of you continue until the scream ends in drunk laughter.

Ian doesn’t speak the whole walk back. He doesn’t even look at you.

He unlocks the door when you get back to the high-rise hotel and storms right in. You follow slowly, quietly closing the door behind you. When you turn around to face Ian, he starts on you immediately.

“What the fuck, man?”

You shrug. “Forget about it. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not fucking nothing, Mickey! You’ve begged me to let you have the last three jobs, and now you’re jumping in front of the fucking target, ignoring the entire plan and every bit of research we’ve done just to - to what? Have an extra fucking notch on your belt?”

You roll your eyes and walk past him, into the living room area. It’s times like this you wish you didn’t share hotel rooms ninety-percent of the time. “My belt is plenty fucking notchy, thanks.”

“That’s not even a word.”

“Whatever.”

Ian follows you, moves to stand right in front of you. “Tell me what the fuck is going on. Is this like in Ohio? When you were getting antsy to kill? Is this some kind -”

“No. It’s not a fucking problem. I’m not some blood-crazed killer who gets hard over every hit he makes, Gallagher. Christ.”

“Then what the fuck is your problem, Mick?”

“You got shot!”

The words are out before you even realise what it is you’re saying. You swallow back the panic that rises - the panic at admitting how fucking worried you were and the panic at the memory of Ian being shot - but Ian just looks at you like you’re fucking nuts. Shit, maybe you are.

You’ve both been shot before. No matter how much experience you get in a job like this, there’s always someone better, and sometimes that someone better works for whoever it is you’re going after. Sometimes the someone better gets the best of you and you end up tied naked to a chair while the giant Russian dude tasers the fuck out of you …

There’s no safety guarantee in this job, and that’s only recently become a problem for you.

“I’ve been shot before,” Ian says, speaking your own thoughts. “We both have.”

“I know.”

“Then what -”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

Ian frowns, but, when he speaks, his voice has gone soft. “Of course is wasn’t an accident, Mick. The guy turns up at our job and took a shot at one of us. Nothing about that is accidental.”

“You.” You correct him. “The guy took a shot at you. He saw me, ignored me, and turned to aim at you.”

“Everything happened so quickly that night -”

“I was closer to him. He had a better shot at me.”

“Mickey -”

“I’ve given this a lot of thought, Ian. He was there for you.”

You don’t like your words. Getting them out isn’t a weight off your chest. It just makes you feel sick at how real this all is. Ian, though, he just continues to frown at you.

“So what? You think my name came up on someone’s burner?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone in our position has been on the other end of the deal.” You pause, run a hand through your hair. “Plus there’s the text.”

You don’t need to elaborate on that. He’s heard from Sheila Jackson multiple times in the last three weeks, each time with positive updates about his family, but none of them have erased the worry around his eyes every time his phone beeps.

He says silent, though. He turns away from you, staring out the sliding door that faces the beach and sunrise, and doesn’t say a word or move an inch. You watch him - watch the sun turn his hair a burning orange, watch his shoulders tense up with each passing second, watch his hands curl into fists at his side … when he finally turns to face you, you’re not surprised by the anger on his face.

“Fuck you,” he says, and you scowl.

“Hey, it ain’t my fucking fault if your name’s turned up on someone else’s burner.”

“Oh, fuck off, Mickey, that’s not what I’m talking about! So fucking what if there’s someone out there who’s been hired to take me out? You think that bothers me?”

“I think it fucking should!”

“What bothers me,” he continues, ignoring you, “is that you’re treating me like a fucking rookie. You think I suddenly can’t do my job just because I’m on someone’s hit list? You think being shot makes me weak? You think I can’t take care of myself?”

“Ian, that’s not -”

“Then stop treating me like I’m here for you to protect and let me do my fucking job!”

You make your face go blank and take a step back. You don’t know why you’re angry; if it’s his lack of appreciation, if it’s you fighting fire with fire, or - most likely - if it’s his lack of concern for himself. You shake your head and turn away.

“Fucking fine. You know what? Do whatever the fuck you want. See if I give a shit.” You leave without another word.

\---

You don’t stay out long. An hour at most. Partly because you’re starving and know Ian will never forgive you if you get breakfast at the place on the corner that he loves without him, and partly because … shit, fighting with Ian really fucking sucks.

So you grab a couple of coffees from the place he likes, and head back, hoping like hell that he’s calmed down enough to at least see your side of things. You can see his side, you understand why he’s so pissed at you, but you need him to understand that you just need him to be safe.

And that thought alone conjures the same feeling in your stomach that you’ve been ignoring for a while now. Thoughts about Ian being more than just your partner in crime.

You get back to the hotel and balance the cup holder in one hand while digging out your key card to unlock the door. You eventually manage, letting the door fall heavily closed behind you and calling out to Ian.

“Dude, you are never going to believe the size of the spider I just saw,” you say loudly, hoping it’s enough to call a truce. “Size of my fucking hand, I swear to -”

You pause as you enter the living room and stare at the scene in front of you. Ian’s standing there in nothing but his jeans, a gun in his hand. On the floor in front of him is a body.

“Ian.”

“I - uh … I think you might have been right.” he says, slowly lifting his eyes to look at you. Everything about him is steady, but clearly surprised. “I think there might be a hit on me.”

You shove the cup holder onto the table, not giving a fuck when both cups tip over and spill everywhere. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“The fuck happened?”

He takes a deep breath before replying, but it clearly does nothing to ease his frustration. “I don’t fucking know, man! I was gonna get changed and go for a run when I heard the door open. I figured it was you coming back for round two, but it was this fucker.”

“And?”

“And he attacked me. So I killed him.”

You look at the guy on the floor. “He armed?”

“This is his,” Ian says, holding up the gun in his hand. “Whoever put this hit out is fucking useless, though, because this guy didn’t get in a single good hit before I broke his neck.”

“Shit.” You sigh and survey the scene. There’s no damage to the hotel, so whatever struggle Ian had with the intruder had been quick and painless - for Ian, at least - but there’s still the problem of the dead body on the floor. You look up at Ian and ask, “What do you want to do?”

Ian shakes his head. “It’s light out. Our flight leaves this afternoon. We don’t have time to do anything.”

“Okay. Pack up our shit. I’ll move the body to another room. I think the one two doors down is empty.”

“Or, you pack up our shit and I’ll deal with the body,” Ian says, voice hard. “I think I’ve more than proved I can take care of myself, Mickey.”

His voice is hard and he’s glaring at you again, so you sigh and nod. “Whatever you want, man.”

\---

You destroy all identification for John Foley and Axel McClane the day you arrive back in the States. You’re at a small safe house thirty minutes away from LAX, Ian sitting on the run-down porch steps behind you as you throw the lit match into the trash can with every piece of history belonging to both Foley and McClane.

“What do we do now?” Ian asks when you sit on the porch next to him. He’s lit up in the light of the fire, looking beautiful and unattainable. You don’t let yourself look for long; you turn away and stare into the flames.

“Now we figure out who wants you dead.”

\---

You start with Jimmy. You’ve known him for as long as you can remember, and he’s one of the few people left alive who know your old man. Or … knew. As far as you know he hasn’t had anything to do with Terry Milkovich for even longer than you, and you’re pretty sure he’d like to keep it that way.

He can be a bit of a douche sometimes, but so long as he’s actively avoiding Terry, then he’s on your side. Probably.

You don’t tell Ian how you know him. You mention that Jimmy works for the company, and that’s good enough for Ian.

Jimmy turns out to be more useless than usual, though. He’s damn good with a gun, and he could steal the heart of the ocean from Kate Winslet’s neck, but he’s useless at knowing anything important unless it directly affects him.

“So you know nothing?” Ian asks, his dejection shining right through.

“Sorry, man. I’ve been keeping pretty low since escaping the authorities in Rome. I did hear that young Karen Jackson is attempting to take on her old lady’s legacy, but that’s got nothing to do with what you want to know.”

“You haven’t been offered anything to take out one of your own?” you ask.

“Not that I know of, but it’s not like I know the given name of everyone who works at the company.” He pauses. “Colin’s been asking about the company, but I don’t think that has anything to do with this.”

You narrow your eyes at the thought of anyone in your family asking about the company you work for, but you say nothing.

“Who’s Colin?” Ian asks.

“A guy I worked with before joining the company.” It’s as close to the truth as you’re willing to get.

Ian sighs, defeated, and you stand, pulling him up with you. You stare at Jimmy.

“Will you be in contact if his name comes up.”

He shrugs. “Sure. So long as your offer’s better.”

You clench your fist, ready to punch him in the nose, but Ian beats you to it. You leave Jimmy dripping blood onto his white carpet and follow Ian out of the house.

“That was a waste of fucking time,” Ian mutters once he’s situated behind the steering wheel of the SUV you’re renting.

You shrug. “My next contact will be back in the states tonight. She said she’d meet us in Vegas for dinner.”

Ian pulls away from Jimmy’s house and heads for the highway. “You think she’ll know anything?”

You have no idea so you decide to change the subject. “Wanna head straight back to the airport? Hit Vegas early and blow off a little steam?”

He lets out a long breath. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

The entire conversation is the most he’s said to you since Australia, and you don’t know if it’s because of whatever the fuck is going on, or if he’s still pissed at you. You’re leaning towards the latter, though; Ian’s not the kind of guy to worry about his own well-being, and you’re pretty damn sure you’re more concerned about the situation he’s in than he is.

So you shuffle in your seat and try to make things right, knowing all the while that it’s pointless. You took Ian’s hit, you treated him like a fucking child … there’s no way in hell he’s going to forgive you any time soon.

You try anyway.

“Hey, uh, Ian?”

“Mmm?”

“About Australia -”

“Don’t, Mick.” He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds disappointed. That’s worse.

“Just let me fucking apologise, man. I know you’re still pissed, and you know as well as I do that we don’t work as well together when one of us is pissed at the other.”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “That’s why you’re apologising? You’re worried our work will suffer because of my hissy fit?”

“Okay, first of all, _hissy fit_ were your words, not mine -”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m just saying …” You trail off, rubbing your palms on your jeans.

“You’re just saying what, Mickey?”

You don’t like it when he’s mad at you, or frustrated with you, or doing anything other than smiling at you. That’s what you’re trying to say, but you don’t know how to say it without it coming across as more than it is … or more than what Ian knows it is. So you fidget in your seat and look out the window.

“Just tryin’ to apologise,” you mutter.

“Yeah, well, try harder. Maybe start by telling my why you’re suddenly so damn sure I can’t do my fucking job.”

“That’s not what this is about, man. I know you can do your job, I know you can take care of yourself, okay?”

“Then what is it?”

“Someone’s trying to kill you!”

Ian ignores the anger in your voice and rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. Every close-up hit we have fights for their life, and fighting for their life means trying to end ours. Someone’s been out to kill me since the day I started this job and you know it. Shit, before then, even.”

He’s got a point. Not every target is an easy target, and the ones who aren’t are often trained to fight back. Or have multiple bodyguards to do it for them. “I guess,” you mutter.

“So what’s changed, Mick? What’s fucking changed about us that you suddenly feel the need to protect me?” he demands, but you don’t reply. You know exactly what’s changed, and you have a sick feeling that he might know, too, but you can’t say the words, so you stay silent and stare out the window.

Ian doesn’t speak to you again until you arrive in Las Vegas.

\---

When Angela opens the door to her MGM room, it’s with a glass bourbon in one hand, and her pistol in the other. Her pistol is aimed at your face.

You take a step back and raise your arms, seeing Ian do the same out of the corner of your eye.

“You wanna lower that thing before you take a fucking eye out?” you ask, but Angela just cocks her head to the side and swirls the liquid in her glass.

“You took out Linetti,” she finally says

You fight a smirk. “I did.”

“You knew I wanted him.”

“I did.”

“And you took him anyway.”

“I did.”

She purses her lips. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“Well … can you blame me? It was worth a million bucks.”

She huffs out her frustration. “Did you at least make it hurt.”

You grin. “I slowly took out his kneecaps and told him it was for you.” And you’re not even lying about that one.

“Fine.” Angela lowers the gun and you and Ian lower your hands. “You can come in, but I’m not offering you a drink.”

“Yeah, sure, okay.”

You walk into her room, Ian on your heels, and move to stand next to the bed. Her room is almost the same as the one you’re sharing with Ian two floors down, but with one bed instead of two. The bathroom’s in the same place, and the view of the airport is almost exactly the same.

When you turn to face her she’s staring at Ian, gun still in hand.

“Since when do you spend more than six hours with a fellow company employee?” she asks, slowly turning her gaze to you.

“Since when are you so nosy?”

“It’s part of the job description,” she quips, and turns back to Ian with a small smirk on her face. “So this is the guy you’re risking your life and career for, huh?”

Ian scowls at that and answers before you can. “Hardly. I’m the one who’s getting shot at, not him.”

“Not yet,” Angela responds, and you don’t miss the way Ian pales.

You take a step forward. “Look, can you help us or not?” You pause, thinking through your next words and deciding now is as good a time as any. “And keep in mind, you still owe me.”

“I think anything I owed you was erased when you look Linetti from me.”

“I still saved your ass in Rio.”

She rolls her eyes. “Barely.”

She’s right, but it’s all you have. You knew coming to Angela was a long shot - knew she would choose to die than to work with a partner for any extended period of time, and knew she would do everything in her power to talk you out of helping or continuing to work with Ian. She cares about self-preservation and not much else.

She’s always been adamant that you should do the same.

And you always did. Until Ian.

The night you met Angela was just like the scene out of _Mr. and Mrs Smith_ , except that Angela was already in handcuffs by the time you decided to pretend to be her husband. And then, of course, instead of spending the night drinking and fucking like in the movie, you drank and compared previous hits - both professional and sexual.

You’ve run into her a total of four times in the three years since, and you like her more than any other company employee you’ve run into.

Except Ian.

You sigh and look at Ian, knowing you’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe. Despite the cold shoulder he’s been giving you, despite the way he’ll barely meet your gaze these days, and maybe due to how much you miss his stupid puns about death, you’ll do everything in your power to help him.

Turning back to Angela, you pull out your burner and hand it to her. “I’ll give you this if you can help us.”

She takes the phone. Unable to hide her curiosity, she unlocks it and goes to your most recent message. Her eyes widen. “This guy’s on the FBI’s ten most wanted.”

“I know,” you say, ignoring Ian’s complaints at you giving up the biggest hit going.

“How did you get this?” she asks.

You shrug. “Spending more than six hours with this guy has been good for my career.”

“Clearly. You two must work well together.”

Ian snorts and you fight the urge to tell him to shut the fuck up, to understand that you just want him safe, to realise this entire thing between the two of you is because you clearly care too fucking much. It’s all on the tip of your tongue, this fucking fight that’s been brewing since Australia, all the words you could say to each and everyone of his complaints, but you keep yourself in check because …

Well. Just because.

Because of things you feel and fear that you don’t want to think about. That aren’t safe to think about. If someone out there has hired a hit on Ian, then you need to think about keeping him safe and not much else. Anything else - anything _unprofessional_ \- could get him killed and you just couldn’t live with yourself if that happened.

“You gonna help us or not?”

Angela goes to her suitcase and pulls out a pen and paper. She quickly notes down the details on your phone before handing it back.

“There’s a girl,” she says. “No one can tell me what she looks like, but she’s been asking about you. About the both of you.”

“Got a name?”

She glances at Ian before continuing. “That’s where things get a little weird. She’s been going by Fiona and Debbie Gallagher.”

Ian steps forward. “What? That makes no sense! Neither Fiona or Debbie are part of any of this.”

“Of course not,” she says, “but those are the names she’s been using. Whether to get your attention or put your family at risk, I don’t know, but those are the names I’ve been hearing.”

“Shit.”

You take a step close to Ian, but stop yourself from saying anything to him. You direct your words at Angela. “Anything else you can tell us?”

“She doesn’t work for the company, but she is in our line of business. Apparently her go-to is poison.”

“Great,” Ian says, lolling his head back to stare at the ceiling. “So now I have to worry about being poisoned as well as shot at.”

Angela shrugs. “Kid, I think you have to worry about any form of murder you can think of. Go through every hit you’ve ever made, the both of you, and compare notes, take it all in, be suspicious of everyone.”

You frown at her. “Have you heard something? About a hit on Ian?”

“I might have been offered 10k for it.”

“10k? _Ten thousand dollars_? Are you fucking kidding me? All I’m worth is ten-fucking-thousand bucks?”

“Ian, dude, you really think that’s what you should be taking from this conversation?” you ask.

“I’ve killed hundreds of people,” he says, and starts pacing the room. Angela smiles, amused by his outburst. “I’ve been in the top five four out of five years in my time at the company, and when someone wants me dead they’re only willing to pay out 10k? I’m fucking offended.”

Angela takes a sip of her drink and you say nothing. It’s not the outburst you expected, but it’s fair enough. You’d be fucking pissed if someone was only offering up ten grand for your dead ass, too.

Instead of telling him that, you turn to Angela. “Did the hit come through the company?”

“Nope. An unknown number. I’ve deleted the text, but I’ll talk to my friend and see if she can do whatever technology-minded stuff she does and get it back.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

She moves back to the door and opens it, a clear invitation for you and Ian to leave.

“I’m taking the hit you gave me. I think my information has been more than worth it.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever. This makes us even, though.”

“Oh, Mickey.” She smiles, but it’s anything but friendly. “You took Linetti from me; we’ll never be even.”

\---

Your last contact isn’t even your contact. She’s Ian’s, and she’s a fucking legend in your line of work. You’ve been quietly hoping to meet her since Ian first mentioned her name, and Ian must fucking know it because he insists on visiting his family first.

“Gallagher, we can’t just fuck around on this. We’re here for business, not to be social with your family.”

“Fine. Our meeting with Sheila isn’t until this afternoon anyway, so you stay at the hotel and I’ll go visit my family. I need to make sure they’re okay after everything Angela said.”

You both know his family is fine; Sheila’s been watching over them since the night you got the mysterious text at the Gallagher house. But you don’t say that. You don’t say anything because you don’t know what to say. You’ve barely left Ian alone in the six weeks since Australia, and there’s no way you’re about to start now. Even though you know that if you and Ian were doing this for anyone else Ian would be all over Sheila’s house the moment you landed in Chicago, you’ll go with him to visit his family and you won’t complain. Much.

You arrive in Chicago early, and all you _want_ to do is go to the hotel and sleep the day away - yesterday’s hit was a fighter, and you’ve got the bruised ribs to prove it - but you say nothing when Ian heads south toward his family’s house.

You follow him inside once you get there, and amid the cheers and hugs, you receive waves and smiles and the kind of warm welcoming that makes you feel awkward and comfortable all at once. But you go with it. If you were to ever wish for a family, Ian’s family would be the kind of family you would wish for - even with Fiona’s over-eager smile and Debbie’s sly glances.

“You’re just in time for pancakes!” Fiona cries, rushing you both into the kitchen. “Debs, can you put more coffee on?”

You take a seat at the table, a few chairs away from Ian, and you pretend not to notice the way Debbie specifically notices. Instead you stare at the scratches on the table and listen to Ian tell his siblings about Australia. Where he was six weeks ago _selling insurance_.

The more he talks about insurance the more you have to fight not to roll your eyes. Fucking insurance.

Angela’s words come back to you, though, as Debbie sit’s a plate of pancakes in front of you and the pot of coffee in the middle of the table. Ian takes the coffee, adding an obscene amount of sugar, but you keep your gaze on Debbie and Fiona.

And there’s no way, no fucking way, that either of them have been asking around about either you or Ian. They believe every goddamn word that comes out of Ian’s mouth regarding his job selling insurance, and you can see just by watching them that there’s nothing _paid-to-kill_ about either of them.

Whoever’s been asking questions is clearly using Ian’s sister’s names to get his attention. You just need to figure out why.

You’re too busy trying to figure out why - and coming up with nothing - to notice Ian and Fiona leave the kitchen until you’re alone with Debbie. When she loudly clears her throat, obvious enough to sound like an actual _ahem,_ you look up and glance around the room.

“Where’s Ian?” you ask, feeling trapped without him but already regretting your words.

She grins. “Fiona’s showing him the paint job she just did on the bathroom.”

“Right. Maybe I should -”

“Shit on your ass and eat your pancakes? Good idea.”

You glare at her, but shove a forkful of pancakes into your mouth. And then another one and another one, keeping your mouth full in hopes it will keep Debbie from bringing up her favourite topic of conversation the last time you were at the Gallagher house.

When Debbie starts talking while your mouth is still full, it’s not what you were expecting.

“Is Ian okay?”

You swallow heavily and take a sip of coffee before answering. “He’s fine.”

“He doesn’t seem fine.”

Of course he doesn’t seem fine, but it’s not like you can tell her that someone out there is offering money to have him killed. Or that this tension between the two of you is beginning to get the best of you both. So you shrug. “Seems fine to me.”

“He’s barely looked at you the whole time you’ve been here.”

“So?”

“So last time he could barely keep his gaze off you. And you him. There’s some serious avoidance going on here and I want to know why.”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, kid.”

“Bullshit.” She pauses to take a sip of her coffee just as Carl comes in through the back door. Debbie continues talking before you can say anything to Carl. “It’s the lying, isn’t it?”

“The lying?”

“About his job. I’m not asking what it is the two of you actually do - I’m not sure I even want to know - but I know he doesn’t sell insurance. Especially not world-wide.”

“Oh yeah?” You pop another piece of pancake in your mouth and talk around it. “And how do you know that?”

“Insurance is numbers. Numbers were never Ian’s strong point.”

“It’s true,” Carl injects. “Even when Lip wasn’t around to help, I’d always refuse help from Ian when it came to math homework.”

“Maybe he’s learned,” you say, feeling somewhat defensive on his behalf.

Debbie shrugs. “Maybe. I doubt it.”

You don’t bother replying. You eat your pancakes, drink your coffee, and try to listen to Ian’s conversation with Fiona upstairs. All you hear is the occasional rumble of Ian’s voice, though, so you frown and look back at Debbie and Carl. Debbie’s staring down at her coffee, but Carl’s staring at you, and when he speaks next, you choke on your mouthful of coffee.

“Are you two … are you and Ian whores?”

The hot coffee burns your throat when you choke, and your reply comes out strangled. _“What?”_

“You know, male escorts? High-profile escorts who travel the world pleasing rich men, but whose friendship is now on the rocks because of the jealousy that occurs when the person you’re in love with is fucking someone else for money.”

You stare at him. “Jesus Christ.”

“Is that a yes?”

“No! Fuck, no. It’s a fucking no.”

“Huh.”

“Are you actually fucking surprised right now?”

He shrugs. “It’s the most reasonable explanation I could come up with.”

_“That_ was the most reasonable explanation you could come up with? Really?”

“There were others,” Debbie says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, “but none of them fit with everything, you know? The mystery job, the sexual tension dripping off the two of you last time you were here, the angst dripping off the two of you today -”

“There was no -”

“Plus there’s the hickey on your neck.”

“Hickey?” You raise a hand to your neck and, sure enough, there’s a tender spot right below your ear. You don’t know how to tell Debbie and Carl that it’s not a hickey without telling them that it’s from yesterday’s job pressing a gun to your neck hard enough to bruise before Ian took him out.

Because, yeah, you’re letting Ian do his own jobs now. It’s not like you can stop him, really. You could try - you could jump in front of him every time just like you did in Australia - but you’re not sure it’s worth it. Unless it’s a guaranteed way to keep Ian alive, then it’s not worth the looks of disgust and betrayal he’ll give you for it.

You’re saved by having to provide them with an answer when Ian and Fiona come back down the stairs. Ian doesn’t glance your way, but you stare at him, thinking through Debbie’s words.

Sexual tension? You doubt it, but you could be wrong. Maybe it’s there and you just don’t know it because you’re one half of it. Or maybe it was there, but it’s not anymore because Ian can barely stand to look at you without glaring. Either way, Debbie was at least right about the tension between the two of you today.

Carl comes to sit with you when Debbie gets up and takes your dishes into the kitchen. “Just so you know,” he whispers, eyes on his phone, “if you and Ian are hookers, I don’t think you’ve got anything to be jealous of. I don’t care who he’s fucking for money, I can tell he wants to fuck you by choice.”

The warm flush his words cause on your cheeks is so fucking pathetic that you stand up and immediately go outside for a smoke. Carl doesn’t follow you, but neither does Ian, and for the first time in weeks, you’re fucking grateful to be away from him.

\---

As you and Ian leave the Gallagher house, Sheila texts to postpone the meeting with her until the following morning. Which is fine except that it’s barely midday and you have nothing to do and no one but Ian to do nothing with. At least you’ve had meetings and research and jobs to do in the six weeks since Australia; the only real down time you’ve had has been spent sleeping.

But now, with the prospect of almost twenty-four hours alone with Ian … well, it’s not appealing.

You climb into the driver’s seat of the hired car, and finger the keys before putting them in the ignition. You want to say something, something to fix this awkward tension between the two of you, but you literally can’t think of anything you’re willing to say. It’s stupid. So fucking stupid.

“Wanna go back to the hotel and grab some lunch?” Ian asks. “Maybe hit the bar?”

It’s the most conversation he’s made with you in forever. You nod quickly, giving it no thought at all. Ian could have suggested heading to a strip club full of mostly-naked women and you probably would have agreed just to keep him happy.

But he’s talking about eating together, getting a few drinks together, and that’s progress. It has to be.

It’s not.

You head up to your room to change your shirt when you get back to the hotel, agreeing to meet Ian in the bar in ten minutes. Once in your room you throw Angela a quick text, hoping to hear something back about the number the hit on Ian came from. By the time you’re wearing a slightly nicer shirt, Angela’s text to say she has nothing and to leave her alone until she gets hold of you.

You give your phone the finger, shove it in your pocket, and head back downstairs to Ian. To lunch and a couple of drinks with Ian. To the chance to clear the fucking air between the two of you, to end this bullshit strain, to make things go back to how they used to be.

Or at least something like what they used to be. You’re not sure things will ever go back to the way they used to be, at least not on your part. Not since the day he was shot.

Ian’s at the bar when you get to the restaurant, but he’s not alone. You don’t recognise the guy with him, either. You stand in the entryway and try to take in everything you can about the other man, but all you can really see is the way his hand is wrapped tightly around Ian’s wrist.

Okay, _tightly_ might be a slight exaggeration, but you don’t give a shit. Even from where you are you can see his long fingers stroking Ian’s pale wrist, and it’s like a fucking punch to the gut. You stalk over to them, hands clenched into careful fists at your side. Ian doesn’t look your way until you speak to him.

“We need to go.”

He barely glances at you. “We just got here.”

“And now we need to leave.”

“Go ahead. I’m staying.”

“Ian.”

He turns to glare at you. “What?”

You don’t know what to say, but Ian’s companion speaks up so you don’t have to.

“Listen, pal, why don’t you back off?”

You ignore him. “Ian, c’mon.”

“Fuck off, Mickey.”

At his words, your chest goes tight in a way you’re not used to, and you look away, desperate to avoid even the chance of Ian seeing the look in your eyes. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about all these fucked up feelings flooding through you since the day he got shot, he doesn’t know why you’re so fucking desperate to protect him, and he doesn’t know just how much his words could possibly hurt you.

But that doesn’t stop pure fucking rage from shooting through you. Maybe it’s a defence mechanism, maybe it’s something else. You don’t give a shit.

You smirk and turn to the guy who still has his stupid fingers wrapped around Ian’s wrist. “You either get the fuck out of here, or I’ll rip off your balls with my bare hands. I’m not kidding. I’ve done it before.”

Whether or not he believes you, the guy pales at your words and mumbles something about not needing this kind of complication just to get laid. Then he leaves.

You look at Ian, still smirking, but he’s glaring at you colder and meaner than he ever has before, and your heart sinks.

“You’re a piece of shit,” he mutters, walking past you before calling back over his shoulder, “and I’m fucking sick of it.”

You sigh and run a hand through your hair before following him up to your room. You’ve been waiting for this, for the confrontation that you know is coming, but you don’t want to do it like this. Shit, you don’t want to do it at all, but you know enough to know it needs to be done.

Ian’s silent in the elevator and in the hallway, but he rounds on you as soon as the door to your room closes behind you.

“The fuck is your problem, Mickey?

“Whatever,” you mutter, before spitting out the one plausible tale you can think of. “You have no idea who that guy was, Ian. He could have just been another guy like us, ready to take out his next hit.”

“Oh, please. You think I don’t watch what I say and do around every guy who flirts with me? You think I don’t watch what _they_ say and do? I’m not a fucking idiot, despite what you seem to think.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” you say quietly, mind stuck on Ian and flirting and other guys. “I just don’t …”

“Don’t what, Mickey? Trust me to know when I’m in danger? To sense when someone I’m talking to is out to get me? To keep an eye on my fucking drink? Fuck you.”

You roll your eyes and take a step forward, fighting every instinct you have to shove at his chest. “No, man, fuck you. All I’m trying to do is protect you, help keep you fucking safe, and all you’re doin’ is goin’ off and trying to hook up with other guys, so fuck you!”

Ian’s silent for a long minute, staring at you with narrowed eyes that you glare right back at. Eventually, his eyes soften and he cocks an eyebrow.

“You’re jealous.”

“What? Fuck off.” Heat prickles at the bottom of your neck and you hope like fuck Ian doesn’t see it.

“You’re fucking jealous that I was flirting with someone else.”

“Don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, man.”

He takes a step forward. You take a step back. “Why didn’t you follow him?”

“Huh?”

“If you’re so concerned that he was trying to kill me, then why didn’t you follow him? Who knows what kind of information we could’ve gotten from him if you’re right, Mick.”

There’s a teasing tone to his voice, one you haven’t heard in fucking forever, and you have to swallow through the dryness of your throat before replying.

“Fuck you.”

“Is that what you want? Is that what all this sudden concern has been about? You want me to fuck you?”

This time you take a step forward. One more and you’ll be able to shove him like you really want to. “What I really want is for you to shut your fucking mouth and stop being a dick.”

He makes a face. “I know you’re saying that you want me to stop being a dick, but all I hear is that you want me to suck your dick.”

Said dick twitches at his words, that’s undeniable, but you don’t know what he’s doing or if he even knows what he’s doing. That teasing tone is still there - fully directed at you, but no longer making you warm inside - but there’s nothing but heat in his eyes.

“Shut up,” you say, because it’s literally the only comeback you can think of.

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what, Ian?”

“Tell me why you’re suddenly so fucking concerned with my safety,” he says, voice soft and pleading. “Tell me why you didn’t want me talking to that guy, why you’re jealous, why you’re so fucking intent on protecting me.”

“Because I need you to be okay! I need you to be okay and with me.”

The words come out without your consent and you want to take them back immediately, but the look on Ian’s face makes everything worth it. He sighs and steps forward.

“Fucking finally, Mickey.”

He grasps the back of your neck, pulls you close, and kisses you - _oh_ how he kisses you - and it’s fucking glorious, better than you ever could have imagined. Ian kisses you like he’s been waiting years to do it, like he’s spent hours upon hours staring at your lips and waiting for an invitation, like he’s been deprived of something so sweet and simple for so long that he can no longer hold back.

Ian kisses you and it makes your knees weak.

Until he pulls back with a wet gasp. You tighten the grip you didn’t even realise you had on his waist he and stares down at you from hooded eyes. You stare back, biting at your bottom lip in a way that isn’t supposed to get his attention, but definitely does.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “I wanna do it again. I wanna put another kiss uh-pun your lips.”

You blink. “Did you - _uh-pun_? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s the best you can come up with?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Not my best work, I’ll admit, but …”

“But?”

“I’ve got other things on my mind.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I seem to remember hearing you say you wanted me to suck your dick.”

“Fuck.” You breathe out a laugh. “You’re such a shit.”

He leans close, lips gliding over the shell of your ear. “You complainin’? You complainin’ at how badly I wanna taste you?”

You can’t reply. You don’t know how to reply without losing every ounce of dignity you have, so you kiss him again. You kiss him hard, thrusting your tongue into his mouth and capturing the heavy groan he lets out, and it’s fucking perfect. You could do this for hours, days, the rest of your fucking life. Just kiss Ian. All the fucking time.

He turns you, hands in your hair and hips against your own - and, oh, fucking hell, that’s his hard cock pressed up against your own through your jeans - and pushes and moves until your legs hit the bed. And he doesn’t stop kissing you, not once - not when one hand tugs at your shirt, not when your hands start on the buttons of his, and not when his other hand grips at your thigh and lifts it around his waist.

You groan into his mouth, eager and desperate for more - more skin, more kissing, more Ian - and Ian gives you more of everything. He continues to kiss you and doesn’t stop until he absolutely has to pull away and rid you both of your shirts, then this it’s his chest against yours, hot and smooth, rubbing and slightly sticky with sweat, and it’s so fucking perfect that you actually fucking whimper.

“Yeah?” he asks, lips still against your mouth. “You want this? You want me?”

You thrust up against him, fingers digging into his skin. “Yeah, Ian, fuck.”

He groans, low in his throat, and pulls away from your mouth. The sound you make in protest is fucking pathetic, but turns into a hoarse cry when his lips attach themselves to your neck, teeth and tongue nipping and licking at every piece of skin they touch, and all you can do is hold on tight, let Ian do as he pleases, well aware that he’s doing all the work, but unable to think clearly enough to do anything about it.

And then your jeans and boxers are gone, and Ian’s standing over you in nothing, not a fucking stitch of clothing, and it’s breathtaking. You stare and fucking stare as he grabs condoms and lube out of his bag, and his just gives you that goddamn grin when he turns back to face you.

He covers you, kisses you again, slides his body messily over yours, and you pull him in tighter, bite at the skin of his neck, palm at his ass until he’s pressed right up against you. Then there are fingers, warm and slick with lube, touching you, easing into you, twisting this way and that, making you fucking crazy and close to coming already

You try to steady yourself, take deep breaths to reduce the intensity of what Ian’s doing to you, but he leans close, fingering you and whispering in your ear, and it’s so fucking hard to stay calm.

“So fucking good, Mick. Always knew you’d feel like this, can’t wait to feel you around my dick …” And he doesn’t stop. Not when he slides his fingers out, not when he slides the condom on, and not when he slides deep inside of you.

He just keeps talking, between kisses, telling you all the things you think he might have been keeping from you for months, and all you can say in response is his name, over and over again, Ian, Ian, _Ian._

\---

Ian lies there after, long limbs taking over the whole bed, with that stupid grin on his stupid face. You snort and look away, pretty sure that you’ll just end up saying something dumb and sappy if you continue to look at him. He looks so happy, so relaxed, so fucking beautiful. You never want it to end, but you also have this insane urge to move things alone, figure out what comes next.

“Man,” he mutters, stretching out even more, “been wantin’ to do that for ages.”

His words should send your heart soaring, but all they do is shoot concern through you. You know this isn’t just fucking for Ian - a part of you has known for months that he wants something more from you - but his words still make you wary.

You climb out of bed and hurriedly reach for your clothes, not looking back at Ian once. You can feel his stare on you, though, feel the heat of his gaze as it slips over your naked body, and it makes you want to drop your clothes, climb back into bed with him, let him do whatever he wants to do all over again.

“Hey, Mick?” he says, voice soft, and you force your own voice to come out as normal as possible.

“Yeah?”

“We should do this again sometime.”

You pause, jeans barely covering your bare ass. Despite the teasing words, there’s a warmth hidden in there that you’ve never heard before. Not with those words, anyway, and you’ve heard those words a lot. You quickly pull up your jeans and turn to face Ian as you do up the zip and button.

He’s teasing you. The same joke he makes after almost every hit, right before he tries to flirt with you. But, again, there’s something on his face you’ve never seen before. So you smirk and say whatever words will come out of your tight throat.

“Sure, man, whatever you say.”

He grins. “Where ya goin’?”

“Need a smoke.”

“Okay.” He stretches again. “But you better be ready for round two when you get back.”

He’s not looking at you. You take a quick second to stare at him, at how fucking gorgeous he is naked and post-fuck, before shrugging on a t-shirt and leaving the room.

\---

There’s blood. Not a lot, but enough. Blood on the sheets and floor. A broken lamp. The window is open and smashed. Everything is wrong, but most alarming of all, Ian is gone.

You let the door slam closed behind you and go straight for your bag, pulling out your gun and crouching low. The bed is too low to the floor for someone to hide under, and the wardrobe door is wide open and empty inside. There’s literally only one place to hide in the room, and that’s the bathroom.

But you don’t think it through. You don’t think about who might be in there, or what you might find in there; you hold your gun in front of you and storm in, ready to take out whoever might have Ian, whoever has possibly hurt Ian.

You have a split-second hope that it’s just Ian in there. That he’s washing up after taking out whoever came after him, whoever broke the lamp, whoever bled on the bed, but you don’t get your hopes up. This isn’t like Australia, and you already know it. You can feel it in your damn bones.

Ian’s gone.

You kick the bathroom door open, heart sinking when you find it empty.

“Fuck.”

You storm back into the bedroom and throw your gun onto the bed, looking around the room for anything that might tell you what happened … who happened.

You’re gaze goes back to the blood on the bed. Over and over again, your gaze is drawn to the fucking blood, and it makes your insides freeze. Bile climbs your throat, but you push it back down. You can’t afford to freak out.

Taking a low, steadying breath, you take a proper look around the room, but there’s nothing - no note, no calling card, no cut off finger. Nothing. The clothes Ian was wearing are gone, but his phone and all his weapons are exactly where they were when you left half an hour ago. Other than the broken lamp and window, and drops of blood, there’s literally nothing in the room to even hint at what happened, and the lamp and blood aren’t enough to tell you anything.

You pull out your phone and bring up the keypad. You get as far as dialling _911_ before cancelling that phone call and every thought of that phone call. Instead you open your contacts and call Angela.

“I told you I have nothing,” she says in lieu of hello.

“Have you had any more offers on Ian?” you ask, ignoring the shaking in your voice.

“I might not agree with the way you work these days, Milkovich, but I saw how much he means to you; I would have told you if I’d had anymore.”

“Shit.” You turn to the open window, rubbing a hand over your face.

“What is it?”

“He’s gone. Someone’s taken him.” And if it was anyone else you were talking to, you wouldn’t say a damn word. But you’ve known Angela longer than you’ve known Ian, and, second to Ian, she’s the only colleague you trust.

She’s silent for a long moment, and when she speaks, it’s not much, but it’s more than nothing. “Let me call my friend again. I’ll get her to hurry up with that text and get back to you.”

She hangs up before you can thank her, and you immediately miss the small amount of company she gave. The small amount of something you might be willing to call comfort.

You pause before you make your next call, taking three deep breaths and talking yourself down from doing anything else that might be considered stupid. Because you know that telling Angela wasn’t your smartest move, but you did it anyway … you won’t tell anyone else, though.

Jimmy answers on the eighth ring, just as you’re getting ready to hang up.

“Mickey, hey.”

You thumb your lower lip. “Any news?”

“Nothing, man. I would have told you if I’d heard anything.”

“Sure,” you say, “so long as my price was right, huh?”

“It’s not like that, Mickey, I swear.”

You run a hand through your hair and take another deep breath. “Jimmy, I know you’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have, but we both know I’m a lot better at this than you are. If I find out you’re lying -”

“I’m not!”

“I’ll cut you into pieces and scatter you in the fucking Pacific. Understood?” You hang up before he can reply.

You throw your phone on the bed next to your gun just as it beeps with an incoming text. You lunge for it, swiping rapidly to open the text before it’s even in front of your face, but you freeze once you see what it says.

_We have the redhead. Don’t bother looking for him._

It’s an unknown number, probably from a burner just like your own, and it makes something in your throat close up tightly. Hands shaking, you drop the phone and take another look around the room, but there’s nothing new, nothing you hadn’t seen before, nothing to give you hope. Not sure what the fuck to do, and unable to think of anything but that damn smile of Ian’s, you sit on the bed and stare blankly at the wall.

\---

You don’t let yourself wallow. You sit on the bed in the hotel room and stare at the wall in front of you in a daze for five, maybe six, minutes before getting up and sorting yourself out.

Your first move is to head back down to the bar and try to find the guy who was hitting on Ian earlier. He’s currently your only suspect, and a good one at that, but that idea flies out the window when you see him squished into a booth and getting sickeningly close with some old guy.

So you go back to your room and make a mental list of what you need to do - charge your phone, pack up all of yours and Ian’s shit, make subtle calls to every single fucking contact you have - while combing through everything in the hotel room, looking for _anything._

You come up with nothing, again. But it’s not as bad this time, because this time you have a plan. You charge your phone, you pack up all the shit, and you open your phone to consider contacts …

Contacts.

It hits you suddenly and you can’t stop the tremble that runs through your body the entire drive there. It’s dark by the time you leave the hotel, and damn cold when you arrive at your destination, but you sit on Sheila Jackson’s doorstep for three hours before she comes up the sidewalk, large knitting bag in hand.

She smiles this odd smile at you, stopping a good six feet away.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

You stand. “I’m Mickey.”

“Okay.”

Silence follows and you take a quick glance around the neighbourhood. You’re not far from the Gallagher house, but you can’t see another soul in sight. So you tell her, voice low and careful.

“Ian’s gone. Someone took him.”

Her smile widens. “Now, now, I’m sure your friend is just fine. Why don’t you come on inside and I’ll make us both some cocoa? It’s supposed to snow tonight.”

Your jaw drops and you stare at her as she walks right past you, up the front steps, and into her house. You follow - because what the fuck else are you going to do? - but stop when she puts a hand up at the entrance.

“Would you mind taking your shoes off, please?”

“What?”

“Shoes. Off.”

You stop and stare for a long minute. You don’t get this women. She’s a fucking celebrity throughout the company, with more kills than any other person in the place ever. In fact, when they combined the total kills of the two people just below her in ranks, it still didn’t add up to as many as Sheila had.

But here she is with her wide smile, her fifties-style dress, and her fucking no-shoes rule, and all you can do is go along with it and hope like hell the interior of her house is decked out with the stuffed heads of her prey, because what the actual fuck?

Once your shoes are off, she allows you into her house and you’re more than a little disappointed to see not a single human head on her wall. You take the offered seat at the dining table and then wait as she goes to the kitchen. When she comes back it’s with a plate of cookies and the aforementioned cocoa.

“You’re lucky I do my research,” she tells you, setting the tray down in front of you. “I’ve known Ian since he was a boy, but when he told me he was bringing someone else from the company with him … well.”

“Well?”

She shrugs, smile still in place, and pours some sugar into her cocoa. “I don’t like surprises. And I have very tech-savvy friends. I made sure to find out everything I could about you.”

“And?”

“And I’m glad you moved away from working with your father.”

That’s not the answer you expect, and anyone else would get a mouthful for even bringing that old fuck up, but you came into this respecting Sheila, and her honesty doesn’t change that. “Same.”

“And if Ian trusts you then you must be good at your job.”

“I am.”

“Just not good enough to keep him safe?” she asks. Your entire face falls, and Sheila definitely notices. She reaches a hand across to gently pat yours. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I can see now how much you care for Ian.”

“Someone has him,” you say, pulling your hand back, but picking up your mug of cocoa so it doesn’t look like you’re being rude. “And I have no idea who. All I’ve been trying to do since we got back from Australia - fuck, since before then, even - is keep him safe, but I leave the hotel for thirty minutes and someone gets him.”

“I’ve been looking into this entire situation,” she says, leaning close, “but I’ve found nothing. And that’s odd. Like I said, I have some of the smartest people in the world as friends, people who the company can’t even get a hold of, but no one knows anything.”

“That means this is big, right? Someone out there, someone with a lot of money and leeway wants Ian dead.”

“Or it’s the exact opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s someone so inconsequential that word simply hasn’t gotten around. Perhaps it’s someone who doesn’t have a lot of respect in the industry, so they’ve managed to keep themselves off the radar.”

“Angela did say she was only offered ten for taking out Ian.”

Sheila makes one hell of an interesting face at that. “Ten-thousand dollars? Ten thousand? That boy is excellent at what he does and worth ten times that. Good Lord, I’m offended on his behalf!”

You grab a cookie off the plate and begin to pick at it. “So, uh, any ideas?”

She shakes her head. “None. But let me work on it. I’ll get in touch with my friends, my contacts, and see what I can find out.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s your next move?”

“I - I don’t know.” You hadn’t really thought that far ahead - charge your phone, pack up your shit, get in touch with contacts - and you feel stupid for it. You should have a plan, a solid Get-Ian-Back plan that will go off without a fucking hitch because you’re damn good at your job.

“Go back to the hotel,” she says, standing up and taking the tray back to the kitchen. “Wait out the rest of the night just in case Ian comes back, or you get another message. Call me if you haven’t heard anything by morning and we’ll come up with something.”

You get to your feet because that seems to be the end of that. It’s not a plan, not at all, but it’s all you’ve got - especially if Sheila, most badass assassin you’ve ever heard of, came up with it.

She comes back into the living room and hands you the plate of cookies, covered in cling wrap, and what looks to be left over lasagne. On top is a slip of paper with her number on it. “Try and get some rest,” she says. “I get the feeling you’re going to need it.”

\---

A car follows you back to the hotel. It keeps three cars behind you the entire way, despite the backstreets and wrong turns you make. You don’t know if it’s related to what happened to Ian, but you do know it’s not a coincidence.

It’s a black sedan, pretty beat up and definitely conspicuous, but now conspicuous enough. It follows you all the way back to the hotel, parks right across the road from the entrance, and stays there. You consider calling room service and pulling off the banana-in-the-exhaust-pipe gag, but decide against it when the blood on the rumpled sheets catch your gaze again.

Instead you make sure your pistol is tucked into the waistband of your jeans, and leave the hotel.

You make a show of getting into the car you hired with Ian that morning - fiddling with the bags in the boot, moving one of them from the boot to the backseat, playing around with the radio once the car is going just to waste a little more time. And it works. The black sedan pulls out of its park only seconds behind you and follows you the entire way.

You have an address from Sheila. Sheila fucking Jackson. You never would have thought you’d be in the situation you’re in now, and you definitely never thought your one true ally would be the most badass person who’s ever worked for the company.

The only person you’d prefer to have on your side right now is Ian.

The abandoned buildings aren’t exactly the best spot for what you need to do, but it’s good enough. You don’t know how or why Sheila knows of this place, but you’re no longer surprised by anything regarding Sheila Jackson. You’re pretty sure she was coming home from a fucking knitting marathon, for fuck’s sake.

The black sedan follows you the entire way there, going as far as to drive right up your ass at one stage. You can’t help the scoffs that falls out at the sight of whoever the fuck’s driving when they very nearly rear-end you at a red light. But whatever. It just goes to prove what you’ve known all along; whoever’s after Ian is a fucking novice at their job.

You park two blocks away from the abandoned buildings. The black sedan does the same.

You grab the bag you had placed in the backseat and take it with you as you head down the street - away from the twenty-four hour gas station, away from dingy diner that seems to only serve truckers and hookers, and away from the party going on in the half-demolished house.

Whoever’s in the black sedan follows you the whole way.

The lights and sounds of the block you parked on begin to fade, and all you hear as you approach your destination are you own footsteps … and then the footsteps of whoever’s following you. Again, they suck at their job; you hear them the second their feet hit the deserted area of the neighbourhood. But you keep walking, grasping your duffle bag tightly in one hand while keeping your free hand loose at your side.

You make a left at the second abandoned building and begin to ascend the stairs, slowing your steps so the idiot behind you won’t lose sight of you. This entire plan works on the guy behind you catching up to you. Without that, you have nothing.

You make it to the roof before stopping, waiting, gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans, a knife in one hand, and your retractable baton in the other. You wait, breath stuck deep in your lungs, as the footsteps get closer and closer until he’s right in front of you -

You strike quickly, hitting him over the head with your baton, hard enough to knock the fucker out. Throwing your baton to the floor, you grab out your flashlight and take in the sight below you, the pale face of the person who you must know something about Ian’s disappearance.

Bile rises to your throat at the sight of your own brother.

\---

The last time you saw Colin was when he handed your gay porn over to your old man, smug smirk in place. You wanted to beat his ass for it, pound his goddamn head in, fucking kill him … instead, what followed was the beating of your life followed by your first gun-shot wound. Delivered by your own father, of course. It wouldn’t be the Milkovich way, otherwise.

Colin looks even worse now than he did six years ago, and you both love it and hate it. You love he’s falling apart, that he’s skinny and pale and sickly, but you hate the scabs on his arms that prove it’s because he’s gone back to using. You have zero sympathy for anyone as stupid as Colin.

You punch him in the face. Just because.

He grunts in the chair you’ve duct taped him to, but doesn’t wake up. Probably not your best idea - you want information, after all - so you grab the water bottle from your bag and squirt some on his face. It takes a couple of goes over a few minutes, but he eventually blinks the water away, looking up at you through wet lashes.

“Mickey.”

“Colin.”

He tugs at the restraints keeping him on the chair. “Let me go.”

“Nope.”

“Dad’ll hear about this.”

“No he won’t.”

If possible, Colin pales even further. “What d’you want?”

“I could ask you the same question,” you say, flicking open your switchblade and twirling it skilfully between your fingers. “Why were you following me?”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Honestly, you’re surprised it’s taken this long. You half expected to start really hurting Colin the second he opened his mouth to speak. You have to give the guy credit for not pissing you off enough to hurt him with the first words out of his mouth. For once.

Despite that, you let your anger take over. Your hand comes down on his, burying your blade to the hilt. Colin screams, but your only concern is how you’re going to get the knife out; it’s buried pretty deep, through his palm and into the arm of the wooden chair.

“Let’s try that again,” you say, once his howls have subsided and spittle is flying with each breath he takes. “Why were you following me?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ve got a whole bunch of toys with me if you really want to keep going,” you tell him, waving an arm towards your duffle bag. “I’ve got all the basics, man; pliers - not that you’ve got many teeth left, but your fingernails will suffice; my taser - don’t need electrical outputs for that; and testicle clamps - not the fun kind, sorry. But I’ve got the other stuff, too … you know, the stuff Dad taught me how to use.”

“Fu - fuck you,” he stammers out, visibly shaking.

“Got my Cat O’ Nine Tails - I seem to remember Iggy was particularly good with that one. I’ve got bamboo shoots, for whatever nails I don’t pull out with the pliers. And, well, look where we are, man? You followed me all the way up here and now I’ve got Dad’s favourite tool to use … your own fear of heights.”

Blood drips from Colin’s hand into the filthy floor, but he continues to tug, stupidly thinking he’ll somehow get free of both the switchblade and duct tape. You lean close so your face is mere inches from his.

“Then there’s what you brought up here with you,” you say, voice low and threatening. “How long until the cramps start up, Colin? How long until things turn to shit and the withdrawals really kick in?”

“Mickey, c’mon, man … you don’t - you don’t have to do this.”

“I won’t … if you tell me what I want to know.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t. Dad’ll kill me if I tell you anything.”

Your stomach clenches at the outright fact that Terry is involved in this somehow, that this isn’t just Colin being a dick, but you keep a straight face. “And I’ll kill you if you don’t. Think about it, Colin - who would make it hurt more?”

To you, the answer is obvious, because there’s no one meaner than Terry Milkovich, but Colin surprises you. “We’ve been looking into you,” he says. “I know about some of the shit you’ve done, the people you’re associated with, the guy you’re spending all your time with -”

A low growl falls from your throat, but Colin continues.

“Pretty sure, considering everything, you’ll make it hurt more, Mickey.”

You don’t think, you just punch him square in the face, hard enough to break his nose. He wails like a little bitch, but you just take a step back and wait him out.

“Motherfucker!” He spits to the side, glaring at you.

“Tell me everything.”

“Fuck you.”

“Pliers come out next, Colin. Start talking.”

He hisses in a couple of breaths before spitting out, “Linetti.”

You take a step back. “What’re you talking about?”

“Dad was workin’ with Linetti,” he says. “Killin’ people might be his main business, but you know people just don’t trust him to get the job done the way they trust you and everyone else who works at the company … you think he was gonna turn down anything else that brought him money?”

“Linetti worked in sex trafficking,” you say, hands balled into fists at your side. “Are you seriously telling me Dad was caught up in that shit?”

“Caught up? Fuck off, he fucking loved it. But then you took out Linetti and Linetti was the only guy in that business who trusted Dad.” Colin shakes his head, malicious smile on his bloodied lips. “You cost him a shit-load of money, Mickey.”

“And?”

“And he heard about it. Shit, everyone heard about that. But when Dad found out … hell, I ain’t ever seen him so mad.”

You don’t fight your grin. Not only are you fucking proud of how you took out Linetti, but making your old man furious by doing so just makes it even better. “Keep talkin’.”

And Colin, for all the fight he put up, keeps on talking.

“He started lookin’ into you, who you worked for … who you worked with.”

You lick at the backs of your teeth, urging your breathing to stay steady. “Ian.”

“Dad ain’t stupid, Mickey. When he found out you were teamed up with some fairy, he took it personally.”

You remember your dad’s face when Colin handed him your porn, the disgust and hatred in his eyes when he turned to look at you, the names he called you for daring to be both his son and a _faggoty-ass pillow biter_. But then you weren’t his son, not anymore, and you’d never been more grateful for anything in your life. Even with the thought that your life was about to end as he kicked the shit out of you, you were just glad to be done with him.

And now you’re not done with him.

Terry Milkovich is nasty. He’s nasty to his kids, to the women he sleeps with, and to his friends. Being mean isn’t just a professional thing with him, but he is the cruellest assassin you’ve ever come across. Other than Colin’s very own fear of heights, you don’t have any of your old man’s favourite torture devices, despite what you said. You don’t use them anymore. Haven’t since the day he told you to get your ass out of his sight.

But, for the first time since before that day, you want them. You want every fucked up method of retrieving information that your dad taught you, and you want to use them on him. Because you know, without Colin saying a damn word, that Terry’s the one who took Ian.

“We’ve been keeping track of you.” Colin keeps talking, oblivious to the thoughts running through your head. “Trying to take out the twink you’ve been hanging around. I thought we’d be better off just getting rid of you, you know? But Dad seemed sure that the best way to get to you was through the redhead.”

“So you took him? From the hotel?”

“Dad took him. Must’ve put up a bit of a fight, too, because they both came back looking like shit.”

“I’m surprised Dad made it out alive,” you say, partly because it’s true and partly just to insult Colin’s loyalty.

He just shrugs. “All I know is that Dad was pissed as hell to find Gallagher naked. In a shared hotel room. In a hotel room he shared with you.”

“Yeah, yeah, Dad hates that I’m gay. It ain’t news. I fucking get it.”

“I don’t think you do. This ain’t about Lenitti anymore, Mickey. This is all about you working with this guy. All about you running around the world and acting like a sick little fag, ruining the Milkovich name.”

“That’s why he took Ian? Because he’s with me?”

“Yep.”

You pull your gun out and shoot Colin in the kneecap.

His scream is pathetic, and a twisted part of you fucking loves it.

“Where are they?”

“Fuck you!”

You shoot his left foot. And then you wait him out - wait while he screams and cries and bleeds - and you don’t feel an ounce of remorse. You figure you should, maybe - he is your brother, after all - but you feel nothing but pure fucking rage at the fact that Ian is gone and the piece of shit in front of you had a part in that.

“Tell me where they are,” you say, nice and calm, once he’s stopped shrieking.

“I’d rather die than give you anything, you fucking pansy.”

“Okay.” You shoot him in the head without another thought.

\---

You turn up at Sheila’s with a half-empty fifth of really bad vodka and bruised knuckles. She lets you in with no questions, and when she turns for you to follow her inside, she finally looks like the badass the company has always made her out to be; there’s a fucking machete tucked into the belt of her pink nightgown.

She gets you situated on the couch - with a coaster for your bottle - and drapes a blanket over your shoulders. You frown at the mothering, don’t particularly enjoy it, but say nothing. You’re there for a reason, after all, and this time that reason isn’t advice. Sheila’s tech-savvy friends might be able to find out where Terry’s hiding, but you know exactly what you have to do next.

You don’t need Sheila to tell you what to do; you need her to convince you that you’re not entirely alone in this.

Because you feel alone. Without Ian, you’ve never felt more alone in your life.

There were times as a kid - when Terry would take out your older brothers and Mandy would be with Aunt Rande - where you would be left alone in a hotel room for days without any contact with anyone, too young to go along with whatever hit your old man was attempting, but apparently old enough to look after yourself. There was usually enough food to keep you going, but even when there wasn’t, even when all you had was water from the tap and crappy shows on a T.V. that didn’t work half the time … even then you were never this alone.

Not even after you left your dad and brothers, after Terry deemed you a pathetic pussy who doesn’t deserve the Milkovich name, when you went from town to town, city to city, state to state, taking whatever odd job you could, hitching every ride available, living off rice because it was cheap and filling and lasted. When you had no family, and before the company got hold of you, you were never this alone.

“What did you find out?” Sheila asks, and you admire her restraint. You’ve been sitting in her living room for at least half an hour.

“Enough.”

“Enough?”

“Yeah.”

“So you know where Ian is?”

“No, but I know who has him,” you tell her, and she’s clearly waiting for you to say more, but you won’t. “Look, I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I just needed - I just needed a place to crash, okay?” You haven’t checked out of your hotel room yet, but you don’t tell her that, either. She doesn’t need to know that you can’t bring yourself to go back.

“I want to help you,” she says, voice calm, eyebrows raised.

“You’ve done enough.”

And she really has. She retired from the job years ago, and you refuse to be the person to bring her back in. Just because she keeps in touch with her contacts doesn’t mean she’s in the kind of danger she was in when she literally went around the world killing people. And you won’t put her back in that danger. You have no doubt she can look after herself, but you just won’t do it. Not now that she’s out.

She seems to get it, though. Or at least respects your decision to keep your information to yourself.

She stands and pats you on the shoulder. “Try and get some rest. In the morning we can call my friends and try to find whoever it is you need found, and then … well, I think you know what happens then.”

You nod vaguely and listen to her footsteps disappear up the stairs. All you can think about is Ian - not what you have to do once you know where to do it, not who has Ian, not what you just did to your own brother. Ian. Just Ian. His hair, his smile, his stupid long fingers; his stupid long fingers inside of you, the way he gripped at you as though concerned you were going somewhere, the feels of his lips against every inch of your body.

You miss him. Already. You miss his jokes and his bad coffee and the clatter he would make every morning before going on his run. You miss everything about him, and it doesn’t surprise you at all.

This moment has been coming for a while now, this moment where you’ve needed to sit down and truly confront the things you feel for Ian. Since the night he got shot all those months ago, you’ve known that, eventually, you would have to deal with the floaty, heavy, sick-but-satisfying things that you feet in relation to Ian.

You just didn’t think that time would come after he had been taken by your own family.

Family.

Ian is your family. Just Ian. And you’ll do whatever the fuck it takes to keep it that way.

\---

You wake to your phone vibrating on your chest and a wet patch on the leg of your jeans. Mumbling curses to yourself, you pick up the now-empty bottle of vodka and place it on Sheila’s coffee table. You can hear Sheila bustling around in the kitchen, and your stomach churns at the smell of bacon and eggs.

Rubbing distractedly at the alcohol on your jeans, you open the text on your phone.

It’s an address from an unknown number. But right above this morning’s text with the address is an old one, from months ago, simply saying:

_2119 North Wallace_  
_RUN_

You bite at your bottom lip and stare at the text. You don’t know what went down at the Gallagher’s after you and Ian left that night, but you have to assume whoever text you that night was looking out for you. Why else would they send the text?

You look up as Sheila comes in, huge plate of breakfast in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. You let out a low breath, trying to steady your stomach.

“Eat,” she says. “It’ll help.”

You know she’s right, but you don’t want to force those first few bites down your throat. You glance back down at the text and nod resolutely.

At the dinner table, once Sheila’s sitting next to you with a much smaller plate of her own, you bring it up.

“What happened the night me and Ian were run out of the Gallagher house? When he text you to check in on his family?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Nothing concrete, anyway. People came and went, up and down the street, past the house, but that’s not uncommon for the Fourth of July … that’s not uncommon for any night in this neighbourhood; kids loiter, drunks loiter, assassins loiter.”

“You think any of those loiterers were assassins that night?”

“No. There’s no sure way of knowing, of course, but you do this job long enough and you get to know the type, the signs, you know?” She waits for you to nod before continuing. “That doesn’t mean someone didn’t drive past, notice your car gone, and just keep going. There’s really no way of knowing what the plan was for that night. All I know is that Ian asked me to keep an eye and his family, and that’s what I did.”

She motions towards your untouched breakfast, and you shovel in a few spoonfuls of eggs before continuing. “Do you - do you think you could keep doing that? I might have a lead, but it’s coming from the same person who text me that night.”

Sheila raises both eyebrows. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting.”

“You’re trusting this person.”

“No. No way.” The only person you trust is Ian. Sheila’s definitely earning your trust, but with this situation and this situation only. “Look, whoever this person is, they sent us a warning message months ago, right? Told us to run?”

“Sure, but from what? Maybe they were trying to lure you away?”

You’ve considered this, and you tell Sheila that only thing that comes to mind with that. “But nothing happened; we left, weren’t lured anywhere, and Ian wasn’t attacked again until our last day in Australia.”

“You make a good point,” she concedes. “Unless sending that text was their way of getting you to trust them now.”

“Possible. But if that was the case then they would be working for my dad, and if they were working for my dad then they would have hoped to have taken Ian out in Australia.”

She grins. “I knew Ian wouldn’t team up with an imbecile. The boy has good taste.”

You don’t blush. You absolutely do not blush. “Uh …”

“Go,” she says, taking away your plate and coffee. “Go and meet this person, but make sure you’re armed.”

“I’ll keep you updated.”

“You’d better,” she says, and then she ruffles your hair. She ruffles your hair, and you’re left sitting at her dinner table, staring after her, and wondering just who the fuck Sheila Jackson really is.

\---

The address in the text leads you to a diner. The diner Fiona works at, to be exact. While you sit in your car and stare at the place across the street, Angela’s words go through your mind again and again.

_That’s where things get a little weird. She’s been going by Fiona and Debbie Gallagher._

You know it’s not Fiona. You know it the way you know you can trust Sheila in this instance, the way you know killing Colin the night before was the right thing to do, the way you know that you just need Ian to be okay.

You know it deep in your bones, and you wish like fuck you knew whether or not Ian was okay.

You get out of your car, armed to the fucking nines, and cross the street. Inside the diner, you glance around, seeking out Fiona and not finding her. As expected. But when your gaze lands on the person in the far corner booth, your heart drops.

Mandy stares back at you, eyes hard but wary.

You don’t remember the last time you saw her. You genuinely have no memory of it. But you know it’s her; there’s no mistaking the eyes.

You slowly head over to her, cautious of her every move, of every move of every other person around you. You keep tabs on them all, but never once take your eyes off Mandy. And she stares right back, her gaze cold and intense like it’s always been.

You slide into the booth opposite her. A waitress immediately sidles up next to you, coffee and coffee cup in hand, and you wait for her to pour the coffee and move on before speaking.

“Where’s Ian?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nice to see you, too, Mick. Oh, me? I’ve been great, thanks so much for asking.”

You ignore the ache in your chest at someone other than Ian calling you _Mick,_ and lean forward. “Cut the crap, Mandy. Tell me where Ian is.”

“I don’t know,” she says again, slowly, as though talking to a child. “But I will.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dad has him.”

“I know that much, bitch. What I don’t know is where he has him.”

“Neither do I, but I will as soon as Iggy texts me.”

“Iggy?” You lean back, mind swirling. You think back to last night, to how you knew you couldn’t trust Colin, how killing him was your only option, and your head spins because you don’t know that with Mandy. You don’t know if you can trust her. You don’t know if you should have taken her out the second you saw her, and you don’t know that she’s not holding a gun to you beneath the table.

“Guess I’ve got some explainin’ to do, huh?” she says, and casually takes a sip of her coffee.

“You’re working with Iggy?”

“Iggy’s working with me.”

“And who are you working for?”

“No one. Yet.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get that you’re being secretive to make this seem all mysterious and shit, but I’m not playing that game, Mandy. Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“Fine.” If possible, her eyes go even colder. “Not long after Dad kicked you out, he came looking for me. Wanted to train me up to take your place, or some shit, but I was already gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I think I was in Fiji when Aunt Rande called and told me.”

“Fiji, huh? And what the fuck were you doing in Fiji?”

She smiles. “Julia Mansfield.”

“The fuck?”

“Yep. It was easy, too; she has a real sweet tooth, and all I had to do was buy some baked goods, set up a stall at a local market, and offer her a free sample. The stupid bitch took the poison right out of my hand and was dead twenty minutes later.”

“Jesus, Mandy. Who - who the fuck taught you this shit?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please. You think Dad was the only Milkovich to know his shit? Aunt Rande was way better at this stuff than Terry will ever be. She taught me everything I know.”

“That’s what you were doing while staying with her? Secretly learning how to kill people?”

“Not the whole time,” she says. “Not until you guys came to visit once and Dad paid a little too much attention to my tits and shit. Remember?”

Oh, you remember. Colin and Jamie played it off as Dad being drunk and stupid, but you remember the fear on Mandy’s face and the confusion on Iggy’s. You especially remember the absolute fury on Aunt Rande’s as she passed him drink after drink until he passed out, too gone to say another word to Mandy.

“After that, she decided I needed to know how to defend myself. Things just went from there.”

“So you’re the one who’s been going around asking about me and Ian? About the company? Telling people you’re Fiona or Debbie Gallagher?”

“That’s me. I needed to get your attention somehow.”

“Fuck, Mandy.”

She shrugs. “Asking about the company was legit. I’ve been doing this alone for too long now. It’d be nice to have someone pay for my flights and shit.”

“Seriously? You want a fucking job.”

“I’ll have a fucking job, asshole. The second Ian is reported back alive and well, I’ll have a job with the company.”

Your stomach flips at the mention of Ian. “Don’t stop now, Mandy, fucking explain yourself.”

“Ian’s been in their top five four out of the last five years - the company doesn’t want to lose him. Or you.” She stares right into your fucking soul. “They seem to think that if they lose Ian then they’ll lose you, too.”

She waits, expecting some kind of answer. You give her nothing.

“They knew I was interested in work, and they knew someone was after Ian. I think they suspected Dad, too, because they suddenly became very interested in me and where my loyalties lay.”

“And where do your fucking loyalties lie, Mandy?” you ask, voice low and dangerous.

“Fuck you,” she mutters, leaning forward and glaring at you. “I’ve been on my own for years; my loyalties lie with me. It just happens to be lucky for you that what I really want is to work for the company, which means my current loyalties are with you.”

“Well, gee, that just makes things fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Iggy’s with me. I ran into him about a year ago and, fuck, Mick, he was so fucking drunk. All he wants is to get away from Dad, away from the shit Dad pulls. I’ve talked to the company - if I go with them, Iggy comes with me.”

“Okay. Fine.” You sit back and let out a sigh, trying to wrap your head around everything. “What’s all this got to do with Ian.”

“Iggy has him. Well, Dad has him, but Iggy’s there. He’ll let me know the second it’s safe to make a move, and then we go get Ian.”

“No. I go get Ian.”

“By yourself?”

“You say that like I haven’t been right up there in that top five with Ian.”

Mandy cocks and eyebrow and looks away. “You’re emotionally invested, Mick. You shouldn’t do this alone.”

“I do this alone.”

“Christ you’re stubborn,” she mutters, but her phone beeps before she can say anything else. You watch, heart in your throat, as she pulls her phone out and opens the text. Then she looks at you. “You know there’s only one way you’re getting Ian out of this alive, right?”

“If you think I’ve got a problem with killing my own dad then you’re fucking stupid.”

“Whatever you say, dickhead.” She hands you the phone, the Google maps app up on the screen. “You know this place?”

Home base was always Chicago, but that doesn’t mean you spent a lot of time here as a kid. You don’t know the place as well as you should, definitely not as well as Ian - or probably Mandy - but you recognise the area. It’s the same deserted part of the city you had been in the night before with Colin. In fact, the highlighted building is probably only a few blocks away from where Colin’s still tied to a chair.

You send the location to your own phone, anyway, while Mandy keeps talking.

“Iggy’s there,” she says. “He’s on door duty because that’s all Dad trusts him for these days. Jamie and Tony will be inside with Ian.”

“And Terry?”

“Meeting with his dealer. Even revenge on his gay son in the form of the dude he’s fucking isn’t enough to keep him off the blow.”

“How much time do I have before he gets back?”

“An hour, tops.”

An hour. An hour to double check your supplies, get to the warehouse, and take out Tony and Jamie.

You throw a couple of bills on the table and stand. Mandy stands, too.

“I’m not letting you do this alone.”

“I was doing a lot worse on my own before Ian turned up, Mandy. I think I can handle this.”

“Dad’s out for blood.”

“And you think I’m not?”

She huffs and sits back down. “You know what? Fine. Do whatever the fuck you want.”

You don’t reply. You turn and walk away without another word, or a thank you, and you leave the diner. You don’t give a shit what Mandy thinks about your attitude - or anything else, for that matter - you just need to get Ian back.

\---

The building has five different entrances. Mandy had text you only minutes after you left the diner to say that Iggy would let you in, tell you where everyone else was, and set up some sort of signal for when Terry arrived, but you don’t see your brother anywhere, and it just increases your nervous tension.

You haven’t been nervous before a hit since you’re very first one, when your dad was watching and judging every fucking move you made. And this … this isn’t even a hit. This isn’t the job. This is you doing whatever the fuck you have to do to make sure Ian is safe. He’s been gone sixteen hours now. Sixteen hours. You have no idea what might have happened to him in those sixteen hours, but you do know the kind of shit you’re old man likes to pull.

What you did to Colin last night won’t be nearly half as bad as what Terry’s probably done to Ian.

Finally, on your third slow crawl around the abandoned building, a crushed can skitters onto the road in front of you. You lick at the backs of your teeth, keep driving a few yards, then pull over. You take stock of what you’ve got you on you - the pistol tucked into the waistband of your jeans, the one hidden in the holster beneath your jacket, and the four knifes strategically placed on you - and take a few quick breaths.

You’d kill for a smoke. You need that hot burning coursing through your veins and scorching up your lungs right now, need it to calm you, to give you something solid to concentrate on before going into that building. But you don’t have the luxury or the time, so you get out of the car and cross the street.

Iggy’s waiting inside the entrance the can had come from, and he fucking beams when he sees you.

“Shit,” he says, voice an awed whisper. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Well, I mean - Mandy’s talked about you, said she even caught a glimpse of you once or twice, but to actually see you …” He shakes his head, grin wide and stupid. “Man.”

You frown. “The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“You’re a fucking legend in this business these days, Mickey. You and the Gallagher kid. You should hear the shit people say about you, and not just because of the Linetti thing. Dad fucking hates it.”

Any other time and you’d love to hear what people say about you and Ian, to hear why your own brother who watched you train all those years ago is calling you a legend, but Iggy himself just mentioned the exact reason you can’t do that now.

“Where is he?”

Iggy loses his smile. “Fourth floor. You’ve maybe got twenty minutes before Dad gets back. Both Tony and Jamie are up there with him.”

“Stay down here. I don’t care what you hear, you don’t come up.”

Iggy stops you before you can leave. “Look - you should know … Dad’s already done some damage. Bad damage.”

Your blood runs cold and you stare at Iggy with dead eyes. “Is he alive?”

“Yeah.”

“Then he’ll be fine.”

He’ll be fine because he’s the best fucking assassin you know. He’ll be fine because he’s been through bad shit like this before. He’ll be fine because he’s Ian fucking Gallagher and the thought of him not being fine makes you sick to your stomach.

Tony’s easy to take out. You smell him and hear before you see him, standing in the stairwell above you, the smell of his joint trailing down to meet you as he bitches at someone on his phone. You have the element of surprise anyway, with Terry and your brothers not knowing when you would arrive, but this is better.

You grab the silencer out of your back pocket, attach it to your gun, and slowly round the corner. You wait, tongue pressed against your teeth, for Tony to turn, for him to see exactly who’s taking him out, for his eyes to widen and his mouth to open in a shout of warning to Jamie …

And then you pull the trigger, killing your second brother in as many days.

You rush up the stairs, catching his body as it slides down the wall behind him, softening the sound before it can cause any suspicion from the room ahead.

Tony’s still alive, though, staring up at you with wide eyes, blood already dribbling down his lip. He’s dying, has a minute left, at the most, but the fucker smiles.

“You’re too late. They know you’re here.”

You don’t care. You don’t fucking care. So long as the words out of Tony’s mouth weren’t _he’s already dead_ then it doesn’t fucking matter.

You press a hand over his nose and mouth. His eyes widen, but he barely struggles, his body giving nothing more than the cursory twitches and shakes, and then he’s gone. You don’t feel an ounce of remorse.

You keep your gun in hand as you get to your feet and make your way to the door. There’s no noise coming from Iggy, nothing to suggest Jamie heard anything you just did, no screams of pain from Ian. Just nothing. And that scares you. Because you’ve been with Ian in a hostage situation before - usually the guy can’t keep his damn mouth shut.

You bite your lip and peek around the corner, into the fourth floor. It’s empty save for the usual filth you seem to find in abandoned buildings, a couple of pieces of dusty furniture, and Ian. In the middle of the room, tied to a chair far too similar to the one you had Colin tied to the night before, is Ian.

His head is down and lolling to the side, arms bound tight to the arms of the chair. You can’t see his face, but in the dim light coming through grimy windows you can see the blood. Blood on his chest, blood on his jeans, blood on the floor all around him. It makes you see red, a white-hot, flashing red that you’ve never experienced before in your life.

There’s no Jamie in sight, but you slink into the room as quietly as you can, hoping to get Ian somewhere safe before dealing with your brother.

“Ian?” You’re still a few feet away when you call his name, and you get no response. You try again once you’re right in front of him, the scent of blood filling your nose as you reach out and lift his chin with your fingers. “Ian?”

He blinks dazedly, but you barely register it, too focused on the blood covering his face, the two black eyes, the clearly broken nose. You grit your teeth and take in the rest of him - already infected knife wounds to his bare stomach, two missing fingers, what could definitely be a shattered kneecap.

Fuck.

“Ian?” you say again, voice low and shaking.

He slowly meets your gaze. “Knew you’d come.” His voice is hoarse and raw, and when he lifts his head a little more, you see the bruises on his neck.

“Gonna get you out of here, man. Gonna get you somewhere safe, okay?”

“My hero.” His eyes fall closed again, and you want to do the same, want to close your eyes and wish this all away, because at his words your mind automatically goes back to the day Ian got shot, the day all this started.

You take another quick glance around the fourth floor, seeing no one, before going to work on the ropes holding Ian in place. You use the knife from your belt to cut at the ropes around his wrists first, taking stock of the rest of his injuries; fucked up nails from the bamboo shoots you had promised Colin, burns on the skin of his arms from a taser, dried blood pooled around his shoes so who knows what the fuck had been done to his feet …

“Fuck,” you mutter, lifting an arm to wipe sweat from your forehead.

“’M okay.”

“Bullshit.”

“Had worse.”

You look up at him, eyebrows cocked. “Worse than this? Really?”

“Sure.” He closes his eyes for a long second, and when he looks down at you he’s dazed and barely awake. “Just not all at once like this.”

You open your mouth to reply, but a shot from downstairs interrupts you. You snap your mouth shut, grab at your gun, and slowly get to your feet.

“Run,” Ian says, voice a thin rasp.

“Fuck you.”

“Doesn’t have to be both of us, Mick.”

There’s a struggle of some kind going on downstairs, and obviously you can’t see it, have no idea what’s going on, but in your heart you know it’s not going the way you need it to. You take one last look at the doorway before turning to Ian, bending down so your face is right in front of his.

“It’s not going to be either of us, Ian.”

“Mickey -”

You wish like fuck they had tied him up with something other than rope, something that wouldn’t have taken so long to cut through, something that would give him one free hand to hold a gun and help you protect him. But they didn’t, and he’s still tightly tied to the goddamn chair, and you have to do whatever it takes to keep him _breathing_ while tied to that chair.

Another look at the door, and you’re pretty sure that’s footsteps you hear making their way up.

You look at Ian. “Just keep your eyes on me, okay? Whatever happens, Ian, just keep looking at me.”

“Okay, Mick.”

“I’m going to get you out of here.”

“Okay.”

“I am.”

He glances behind you, but you keep looking at him. When he meets your gaze again, his eyes are dull. “Damage is already done, Mick.”

“No.”

“Might be too late.”

“Ian -”

“Just - just know that I love you, okay? Always have, Mick. Always wanted what we had the other night. And your psycho dad can’t change that. Nothing can, nothing will.”

Everything from your throat to your stomach feels tight and heavy and swollen. “Ian, please -”

He closes his eyes, head drooped to the side again as the footsteps get louder. You don’t even know if he’s faking it or not, because he’s right … the damage has been done.

Both Jamie and Terry appear in the doorway, and your stomach drops; you hadn’t really considered having to deal with them both at once - you had been relying on the element of surprise to quickly take them out one at a time.

But you don’t let them know that. You stand up straight, thrilled that the only thing you feel at the sight of your dad is pure fucking rage. He did this to Ian. You just fucking know that he personally went out of his way to torture Ian, to put him through this fucked-up pain, just because of who Ian is to you.

You lick at your lips and let one side pull up in a cocky smirk that you don’t quite feel. “Heya, Dad.”

“I ought to kill you with my bare fucking hands,” Terry replies.

“Well, you could try, but I don’t think you’ll get very far.”

“Is that right?”

The sight of Terry and Jamie in front of you tells you what happened downstairs, tells you who came out on top and who didn’t, so you decide your next words are safe enough. Now. “Well, Iggy tells me I’m a bit of a legend these days, and I’m not sure you’ve taken out a legend in …. well, ever.”

“Put your fucking gun down and say that to my face, son.”

“One: I’m a legend, not stupid. And two: I’m not your fucking son.” You lift a hand and shoot Jamie in the throat before he or your dad can even register what’s going on. Hardly surprising - being an assassin with the Milkoviches was all about making it hurt, getting another notch on your belt, _torture._ It was never about skill or stealth or knowing how to fucking aim with Terry. That was all the company’s doing.

Jamie hits the wall behind him, just like Tony did, and both you and Terry watch as he falls to the ground, gasping and clutching at his neck, leaving a sick smear of blood in his wake. It’s fucking disgusting, but you still don’t feel any kind of remorse for whatever pain he’s in. Shit, you take your gaze off him before he hits the ground, keeping your eyes locked on Terry and his next move.

And when Terry finally looks back at you, his eyes are cold, hard, deadly. “That was a stupid move, faggot.”

“You think gay slurs are gonna bother me? Scare me into submission?” You move slightly to the left, keeping Ian behind you and hopefully out of Terry’s line of sight. Ian hasn’t made a sound since your dad came into the room, and you need to keep Terry’s mind on you … not the gay guy behind you who he thinks you’ve been fucking for the last year.

“I think I’m gonna take great fucking pleasure is killing you … once I’ve made you watch me kill your boyfriend, that is.”

His threat to Ian, surprisingly, does nothing to you. It should make you angry, should terrify you, but all it does is keep you grounded. Jamie’s still moaning and gasping on the floor next to Terry, but he’s as good as dead now. It’s just you and your Dad now, and you knew it would come down to this - to the gay son going up against his homophobic dad.

Terry walks into the room, throwing down guns and knives as he does until he’s ten feet away from you and removing his brass knuckles.

“C’mon, princess, show me that, even though you’re a goddamn fudge packer, you’re still a _man_ by fighting me like one.”

You drop your gun. You pull out your other gun and let it fall to the floor. Finally, you pull out three of your four knives and throw them to the ground. The one you keep on you is in your boot; the one place Terry always told you to never keep a weapon because it was too hard to reach.

That’s what makes it so perfect now.

Until Ian speaks.

“Mick … no.”

You don’t look at him, but Terry grins.

“Aw, your boyfriend’s worried for your safety. Maybe you should just pussy out now, save him anymore pain.”

You ignore him. “S’gonna be fine, Ian. Just do what I said.”

Before Ian can reply, before Terry can do more than narrow his eyes at you, you leap forward and punch him square in the jaw. You hit him again and again, taking him and his age by surprise, but despite that, despite all the training you’ve had through the company, Terry still has his height and weight to his advantage.

You duck his first hit, but then he gets you in the mouth before sucker punching you a second later, and it hits you harder than expected. You double over, gasp once or twice, and then use your position to tackle him. You push and push, arms wrapped tightly around his waist as he steps back and back until he trips over his own feet and falls to the ground.

“Fuck,” he grunts out, his head smacking heavily on the concrete floor.

You grin through the blood in your mouth and spit down at him. You don’t have the upper hand, even as you straddle him and quickly break his nose you know he’ll overpower you soon enough, but you’ll take the chance you have to do whatever damage you can. In your years away from him, you’d forgotten just how big, how frightening, your old man could be. Now that you’re fighting him, you’ll take whatever you fucking can.

He flips you quickly, wrestling his way on top of you, and you fight - you fight him so fucking hard, but for every ounce of skill you have, he has an extra pound of muscle on you and he overpowers you quicker than you would like.

And all you can think of is your gun. Or a gun. Any fucking gun would do, because you know you’re quicker and better with a weapon than Terry is. You know you could fatally hit him from a mile away. You know that, had he drawn his gun on you instead of insisting you fight him with your bare hands, he would have been dead before he could turn off the safety.

But instead you’re lying on the filthy fourth floor of the abandoned building, Terry’s weight pressed into your stomach, and his hands wrapped around your neck. You wheeze and grunt while you can, scratch and tug at his fingers, and he sneers down at you, looking so fucking pleased with himself.

You suppose he should be, because this is it. You’re already drained from the struggle, and it only takes seconds for the fight to leave you. There’s no getting out of his hold. He’s finally going to kill the homo son he was so desperate to be rid of.

You slide your gaze away from him and look at Ian. He’s staring down at you, eyes dazed but wet as he struggles in his chair, but it’s okay. If it has to be over, at least it’s over with Ian’s eyes on yours -

A gunshot rings through the fourth floor. Simultaneously, Terry’s hands leave your neck, leaving you free to gasp in whatever breath you can, while the rest of him falls heavily onto your chest, crushing you. You wriggle beneath him, struggling and shoving until his dead weight is off you, all the while hearing Ian say _Mick, Mick, Mick_ over and over and over.

You reach for a discarded gun and scramble to your feet at the same time, aiming toward the doorway, where the shot had come from. Iggy’s there, gun in hand, glassy eyes staring at nothing behind you.

There’s a low churning in your stomach, the strong feeling of something like sadness that you didn’t feel with Tony or Jamie, but you push it down, push away whatever you owe your dead brother, and turn to Ian.

Ian, who finally looks at you with clear eyes. “Get me out of here.”

\---

Once he’s cleared to leave the hospital, Ian chooses to recover on the beach of Tahiti. You agree to go with him because when he grasps your hand in his - as he’s been doing any time you’re near him since _that day_ \- and looks at you with those goddamn eyes, you have trouble saying no to anything.

Not that it matters. You would have insisted on going with him whether he had asked or not.

You don’t like the beach. You don’t like the sand, you can’t stand the salt water, and you hate shorts. Worse, the only guy walking around without a shirt that you even want to glance at is still covered in bruises that make your fists clench.

“I’m fine, Mick,” he says every time he catches you looking.

He is fine. Now. But he wasn’t. For a few days there it was infection after infection riddling his body - the one caused by a rusted nail hammered into the sole of his foot almost resulting in amputation before the antibiotics kicked in. Then there were the broken bones, more stitches that you can count, and the missing fingers on his left hand. Nerve damage from the bamboo shoots, pins and wires to put his kneecap back together, and scars … so many fucking scars.

But he still smiles at you and he still makes dumb fucking jokes and he’s never once stopped looking at you like he did that night in the hotel room, so you go with it. You do whatever it is you need to do to keep him smiling at you like you’re fucking important to him.

And, in return, Ian never stops touching you.

Two weeks into your beach holiday, Ian insists on swimming. You try to talk him out of it - _I’ve been in there, the salt water is gross; sure it’s clear and pretty, but sharks, Ian; I don’t care if salt water is good for wounds, one step on a piece of coral and you’re going to have another goddamn wound to add to the list_ \- but nothing gets through to him.

He just smiles at you and grabs your hand. “C’mon, Mick. Swim with me.”

You go with him. Partly because he asked you to, partly because there’s no way you’re letting him go alone, and you think he knows that, you think he knows you’re still doing what you need to do to protect him, but it’s not like before. You just want him safe, and now that he knows why, it doesn’t seem to bother him.

So you swim, in the fucking ocean, and you try to hate every second of it, but Ian fucking loves it and it’s hard to hate something that he loves so much.

On your way out, water splashing around your feet and Ian’s hand in your own, he tugs slightly to stop you. He’s staring intently at you when you turn to face him.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You run your hand over your mouth and look away for a moment before meeting Ian’s gaze. “Actually, this whole holiday thing hasn’t been too bad.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s been kind of fun.” You squeeze his hand and continue out of the water. “We should do it again sometime.”

The way he beams at you, the kiss he captures you in, makes everything bad in your life disappear, and you think, with Ian at your side, it might stay that way.

THE END 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback is appreciated :)


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